Unmerciful
by Voodoo Cannonball
Summary: UPDATED! Chapter 12 is up! Someone (or something) is killing off people in a Russian neighborhood of Cleveland, Ohio. Victims are mysteriously frozen to death at home and M&S are called in. Set during March 1996 (Season 3).
1. Chapter 1

Author: VoodooCannonball

Spoilers: None

Synopsis: The Little Odessa neighborhood of Cleveland is home to many things, most of them Russian in origin. However, someone or something, is killing off local Russian men, freezing them solid in their own apartments. At a loss the local police department calls in Mulder and Scully to investigate. Set during March of season three (soon after the leap year), this is my attempt to write an X-Files story as true to the original format as possible.

Rating: A high PG-13. This may be close to R, but I'll put it to you this way: it's no more violent than anything they would have allowed on TV back in the day. When you consider episodes like "Hell Money," "Roland," and "Die Hand Die Verletzt," so on, this doesn't seem so bad.

Disclaimer: Christ Carter and 1013 productions own the X-Files universe and Mulder and Scully. If you don't recognize it, it's probably mine. And with that, _Salud!_

Unmerciful

1223 Pushkin St. Little Odessa, Cleveland

2:28 a.m. March 17th, 1996

March had always been a cold month in Cleveland. While much of the rest of the country was spending that middle of the month tentatively poking its head out of its burrow and sniffing the rapidly thawing air, such niceties would have to wait until April or May in Northern Ohio. Although snow was less common now than it had been say three or four weeks earlier the weather forecasters refused to disappoint and instead cheerfully replaced their forecasts of slush and sleet with that of fog and cold rain (coupled with the usual icy blast of Canadian air fresh from the North Pole). Yet such things did not usually bother the denizens of the "Little Odessa" neighborhood of Cleveland, who were used to far worse. Although in terms of weather alone Cleveland ranked up there with say Vladivostok or Moscow, it was a far cry from the icy mornings of northern Siberia, complete with the villages' lack of central heating or running water. In any case those who did not come directly from Russia or had immigrated as young children had spent most of their lives in Cleveland and as such knew better than to complain to their elders about the difficulties of winter in America. There were far worse fates.

Regardless of the weather outside Piotyr, along with the fifty or so other patrons of 1223 Pushkin Street, was in a jolly mood. The gas was turned up and the sweat and body heat of all the other people crowded around the basement provided all the necessary warmth. That, coupled with the Vodka which ran freely around the bar and the blood which splattered about the 15 by 15 foot arena was more than enough to get the adrenaline pumping. Just another fight night at Yuri's Pub and Grill.

The bell rang and once more the two tired boxers retreated to their coaches at the opposite ends of the makeshift ring, spitting blood and saliva into the outstretched buckets of their handlers. It was a good night for Piotyr. The first two fights had gone exactly the way he had suspected they would and all in all he had raked in a tidy sum. Regardless of the way this third fight went he was going to be going home with a profit, so he had decided to splurge a little.

The bell rang again, signaling the beginning of round thirteen. Piotyr looked up from his glass just in time to see the fighter with the red shorts deliver a wicked undercut to his opponent, a sinewy man sporting a Christ and Theotokos icon tattoo on his left bicep. Theotokos-boy went sprawling back, falling up against the ropes as he shielded his face from the rain of follow-up punches red shorts was throwing at him. The bell rang several times in a half-hearted attempt to restore order and a veneer of sportsmanship to the match, but it was quickly drowned out by the roar of cheers, jeers, and obscenities from the crowd. Before anyone could intervene, red shorts delivered a solid blow to the side of Theotokos' head, knocking him sprawling to the ground. As one, the crowd rose and shouted, pumping their fists in the air jubilantly or shouting themselves hoarse, goading Theotokos back into consciousness. Money was exchanged in a hundred different places and the crowd slowly began to expand as it surged towards the bar, restrooms, and door.

Piotyr briefly thought about staying for the fourth fight, but quickly decided against it. It was getting late and he had lost interest in the fights. Theotokos had done all right, even if he ended up losing. At least Piotyr wouldn't be loosing too much money off of him. Slapping a twenty-dollar bill down on the bar, Piotyr swallowed the rest of his drink, adjusted his coat, and made for the door.

The cold winter air hit Piotyr with all the force of an oncoming train. He had been born and raised in America and as such had no experience with the depths of a Russian winter, but just the same felt that it couldn't have been much worse in the old country. Personally, he thought the old folks who kept bitching about the cold and how hard times were over there were full of it. After all, most of them had been in the US so long they had long forgotten what it was actually like to be trapped in a log cabin on the tundra, hearing the wolves howling in the distance. Besides, it was the fate of every generation to berate its successors, and Russians had nothing if not a long memory and a primordial fear of their children "growing soft."

A light fog had settled in, turning the dim light of the streetlamps into little more than yellow sodium phosphorescent halos in the gray-black night sky. Visibility was still decent and in any case, he didn't have far to go; his apartment was only a few blocks away. However, with each step Piotyr took further away from the bar, the less comfortable he felt. It was a dark night and while it was too cold for any but the most desperate junkie or homeless person to be out, he still quickened his pace.

It wasn't anything tangible per se which bothered Piotyr, but just a general sense of unease. Looking back behind him he could make nothing out in the fog except for the few dim streetlights and trash cans lying on the side of the street. There was something else...a general feeling that something was watching him as he made his way through the damp haze of a Cleveland night. It might have been the liquor, but Piotyr had only had two drinks all night long and was far from drunk. A little buzzed perhaps, but not drunk.

As he rounded the corner of Pushkin Street and turned onto Singer Avenue, Piotyr stopped dead in his tracks. He cocked his ears and listened. Nothing. Perhaps it had just been another trick of haze: sounds behaved strangely in fog. He turned back to his path and took another five steps and then stopped again just as suddenly. Yes, there definitely was something there. His footsteps sounded tinny and hollow, not solid and rubbery the way they should have as his feet hit the sidewalk.

He took another step. Nothing. Another. Still nothing. He was about to dismiss it out of hand again and rush back to his apartment (whose window he could now see in the distance) when he heard it again. The footsteps. However, he was not walking this time. They were slowly growing louder and advancing on him from up the alley.

Piotyr turned around. There was nothing behind him that he could discern. A few of the silhouettes familiar to every city dweller: a parked car, a dumpster, the last few steps of a fire escape ladder, but nothing in the street. A cold, sharp breeze stirred into life, sending a newspaper blowing aimlessly across the road. And then, almost before he could register it as an animate object, stood a human figure.

It was hard to make out any of the details. The figure was small, hunched over. Judging by the headscarf it wore wrapped around its head it was almost undoubtedly female. It appeared to have a cane it its right hand. It stood there motionless in the fog, backlit ever so slightly against the swirling gray by one of the few streetlights at the end of the alley.

How long they stood there staring at each other, he couldn't say. Piotyr licked his lips. "Can I help you?" he began haltingly in his strong Midwestern accent, a product of 11 years of American public education. If the woman heard him, she gave no sign. "Look lady," he began again, no longer sure she even understood English, "this is a pretty bad neighborhood. I wouldn't be out this late if I was you." Once again, no response.

It may have just been a trick of the lighting, but to Piotyr the fog seemed to thicken, grow darker. Although not easily frightened or nervous by nature, Piotyr never felt completely at ease around the older denizens of his neighborhood. Many of them came from the sinister backwoods of old Soviet Russia and although he wasn't superstitious, Piotyr's mother had frightened him more than once with tales of the evil witch Baba Yaga and her house made of human bones. One way or another it was never good to directly deal with the old people (who usually didn't understand you anyway). You never knew what they were capable of or what exactly you could find yourself getting into. And this deep in an immigrant community, every wall had ears.

"Ya ne panimayu Russki," he tried again, summoning up what few Russian phrases he could remember hearing around the house as a child. "I don't speak Russian lady, so you're out of luck." Piotyr then turned around and resumed his walk towards his building, trying to appear nonchalant and uncaring, but in fact deeply troubled. After taking a few steps, he could again hear the hollow, tinny sound of the woman following him. Looking over his shoulder, he was unsurprised (if frightened) to see the woman following. Quickening his pace, he once again heard the woman's footsteps increase, effortlessly matching his.

Piotyr broke into a dead run, mindless of the wet pavement and the possible embarrassment this would bring him in the morning if his friends ever found out. Poor little Piotyr running away like a scared kid from some old _babushka. Whatcha matter, P? You scared of the dark or sumptin?_ He could hear them laughing already. However, he was there, and they were not. And Piotyr had the feeling that if they were with him, they'd be running to.

The door to his building loomed in the blackness, slowly growing larger with each step he took. Panting and wheezing, Piotyr reached his hands forward. In the distance he could still hear the maddening pace of the old woman coming closer and closer. His hot, sweaty palms slammed against the glass and, fumbling for his keycard he looked back over his shoulder, half expecting to see the old lady right on top of him, sinking her fangs into his flesh.

What he saw was so comforting he almost burst out laughing right then and there. Where not five seconds before Piotyr could have sworn the old lady was about to rip him to shreds, there was nothing to be seen, except the writhing and swirling mist. Double checking his path he assured himself that, no indeed, there was nothing in fact there. Merciful silence filled his ears. Not only was there nothing to be seen, but there was nothing to be heard either. If there ever had been a woman there (a possibility which was now rapidly gaining credibility in his frazzled mind), she was long gone. "Probably fell and busted her hip or something," Piotyr chuckled, sliding the key card and walking in through the armor-glass door and up the main stairway.

Despite the fact that he was now home and safe and in the warmth, Piotyr made sure to lock his door upon arriving at his place. Turning on the foyer light, he dumped his coat on the sofa and headed directly to kitchen, fully intending to pour himself a nice, stiff drink, stopping only to switch on the TV. Straight vodka. Or hell, maybe even a screwdriver. Man, after that episode downstairs, he sure could use one. And why not? He had done all right tonight at the fight. He deserved a little celebration.

If Piotyr had been paying more attention he might have noticed the particular way the ice he dropped into his glass tinkled, or the way the glass itself seemed even cooler to the touch than usual. And if Piotyr had been especially astute instead of merely relaxing in the safety of his own home, he might have noticed a peculiar reflection in his bottle as he poured himself a drink: that of a tall, lean figure standing in the corner of the room, dressed all in black with a flowing white beard. By the time Piotyr noticed these things, it was too late. And as the television announcers recited boring facts about the occupation of Haiti, the upcoming presidential primaries and the state of the Cleveland Indians, Piotyr lay on his cold kitchen floor, his life slowly fading away to nothing like a flower in an early autumn frost.


	2. Chapter 2

Apartment 43B, Singer Avenue

12:36 p.m. March 17th, 1996

"I guess they should have used Ziplock bags." Mulder's voice cut through her reverie like a razor through lard.

"What?" She asked, her face conveying her confusion better than her voice ever could.

"Ziplock bags. According to the ads I see on TV they reduce freezer burn by over seventy percent compared to the leading competitor." Silence. His deadpan finally broke out into a full-fledged smile. "C'mon Scully, lighten up. Did you leave your sense of humor back in Washington this morning?" Despite the tastelessness of the joke she had to admit that the scene before them was at the very least bizarre, if not precisely funny.

Although the death of Piotyr Yumashev had occurred nearly ten hours earlier, the mass of people crowded into the modest apartment did not seem to have diminished substantially over time. In fact, judging by the amount of yellow tape out in the corridor and the number of emergency vehicles that were pulling up even as others left, this particular location was attracting quite the crowd. As if reading her mind, Mulder spoke up.

"This is quite the place to be in Cleveland if you're a cop, huh Scully?" he began again, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a pair of latex gloves as he did so.

"Well, Mulder," she said, hoping her voice sounded as tired to him as it did to her, "if this department's quality of investigation is in any way reflected by the quantity of their investigators, I don't see why we had to make this 'quick little trip' out here to assist."

"I hear the rock 'n' roll hall of fame is pretty neat too. Maybe we can take a tour after lunch."

"_Funny,_ Mulder," she responded, unsure of whether to be amused or irritated at her partner's lack of appreciation for the sacrifices she had made to come out for another one of his crazy investigations. She _had_ been planning on calling in sick that morning to boot and catching a little down time. Oh well, so much for that plan. "Why don't we try to figure out who's in charge here."

The sight which lay before them was perhaps best described by what Skinner would have called "organized chaos." Everyone around them was engaged in a flurry of activity. Technicians came and went toting cardboard boxes of various shapes and sizes across the living room. A few white-coated techs were in the middle of dusting the windowpanes with fingerprint power and vacuuming the floor for fiber samples. More uniformed officers sat about filling out paperwork attached to the ubiquitous brown clipboard, and off to one side stood a pair of paramedics, their role long since finished but still insanely curious, no doubt.

Far off in the back of the apartment near the door to the kitchen stood a lone plainclothes officer, chatting on his cell phone. Noticing the two agents standing in the foyer, he quickly terminated his conversation and walked towards them in long strides, clapping his phone shut as he did so. Extending his hand he made his introductions.

"Agent Mulder?" he asked quickly, confirming their identity. Mulder nodded in acknowledgement. "I'm Detective Mark Preston. I believe I spoke with you over the phone last week. Thanks for coming out on such short notice."

"Not a problem, detective," Mulder replied, "this is my partner Agent Scully." Brief nod, handshakes all around. Mulder continued. "So, this is, what? The second one of these...incidents...you've have this year?"

"Yeah, that's right," replied Preston, sliding his hand back into his coat pocket. "To tell the truth I was debating whether or not I should call you up this morning and invite you over to take a look, but when I called the Bureau they said you were already on your way here."

_Already on your way here._ Scully shot a brief, hot glance at Mulder. So much for this being an "urgent case" requiring "immediate assistance." Strike two for Special Agent Fox. If Mulder noticed he gave no indication.

"May we please see the body, detective?" Scully asked, eager to establish herself as an independent agent and not just Mulder's tag-along. "I'd like to get started."

"Sure, sure. Right this way," replied Preston, beckoning for them to follow him as he began the hazardous trek back towards the kitchen. "Try not to step on anything." And with that he launched into the narrative.

"Victim's name is Piotyr A. Yumashev. That's Y-U-M-A-S-H-E-V. This is his apartment and as such also his last known address. Twenty-seven years old, currently unemployed."

"Unemployed?" Scully was surprised.

"As far as we can tell." The detective kept a poker face but his eyes twinkled. "Yeah, I know. How can an unemployed person keep house like this? Crime obviously, though we don't have a record on this guy so we're currently still trying to work it out." Having cleared his way through the last of the techs, Preston stopped. "Well, here we are. Though I must warn you, this is very weird."

"I wouldn't worry about that detective," said Mulder. "I'm sure we can handle it." Scully stifled a chuckle. Preston had _no_ idea.

Compared to some of the death scenes they had been to, it definitely wasn't that bad. Not that it was good, on the contrary, every death they attended was a tragedy. But comparatively it could have been much worse.

The first thing which struck Scully upon entering the kitchen was the body itself. Piotyr lay curled up on the floor in a fetal position, his right arm extended, fingers splayed out as if to defend himself. Although she had seen thousands of cases rigor mortis on the autopsy slab, this by far was the most extreme she had ever witnessed. The body's head was held up at an angle almost perpendicular to the body in a position which would have only been comfortable for a few seconds at the most. Likewise, his legs were slightly parted, the left one lying on the floor and the right foot several inches off the ground. It was almost as it he had been doing aerobics, such was his position. However, the body's position alone was not what grabbed Scully's attention, it was the man's skin.

Quite simply put the entire body was a silvery blue color throughout, except at the outer extremities. The ears, the nose, the lips, the fingertips, all these were a putrid, rotting green-black. Scully recognized it immediately from Introductory Biology 101; no other color like that ever appeared on the human body. It was frostbite, no questions about it.

"Well, I will say this for him," droned Preston in the background. "At least he don't smell much."

Scully silently agreed and continued her inspection of the body. Reaching into her jacket pocket she produced a cheap plastic government-issue pen. Without actually coming into physical contact with the body, she began to tentatively tap the pen against the man's face. It was solid and unyielding, emitting only a slight "tink" with each tap. Again, Scully tapped various parts of the man's body, beginning with the neck and working her way down. When she was satisfied, she began to run the pen lightly against the man's silvery-black hair. Although it was slightly less stiff, the results were much the same. Suppressing any suspicions that a hoax was being played on her (she had learned to quash those particular sentiments within weeks of starting her job on the X-files), she stood up and turned around. Both men gazed at her with anticipation.

"Well, Mulder," she began, her tone conveying a strong tone of professional surprise (and not a little stupefaction), "it would appear that this victim has indeed been frozen solid."

Agent Preston nodded sagely. "That was our initial assessment as well."

"How long has he been here?" This time it was Mulder's turn.

"The landlord discovered the body at about 5:45 a.m. Neighbors below made complaints to the management about water dripping from their ceiling. When no one answered, he used his master key to get in and found the victim. We mopped most of the water away, but as you can see, he's still pretty stiff."

"Can you draw any conclusions just by looking at him Scully?" After pondering for a moment, she responded.

"No. Not here anyway, Mulder. I'd have to run a full autopsy to see what else I could find."

Mulder turned and looked at Preston. "Have you tried moving him yet?"

"No, not yet. We thought about using a blow drier to thaw him out some, but he's stuck to the floor."

"Use a chisel or something, "Scully interjected. "Chip him free. Exposing the body to heat might destroy some of the biological evidence. It'll be much safer to let him thaw out on his own." Preston's eyebrows arched but he said nothing. Hoping to avoid the detective any embarrassment, Mulder quickly spoke up.

"What about this guy's personal life. Have you made any headway there?"

"We're working on it. So far as we can tell this guy was something of a loner. No living relatives that we can find, no girlfriends. If he had any friends, they're not coming forward and introducing themselves. Typical, really."

"Oh? Why's that?" Mulder asked, but he already knew what the answer would be. Detective Preston chuckled.

"Look around you Agent Mulder. I don't know where you folks come from, but this is a Russian neighborhood. They trust the 'po-lee-ski' even less than they trust each other, which is saying a lot, believe me." Scully half expected Mulder to make some witty remark and cut Preston down where he stood, but instead he merely gave the detective a slight smile, one which could be interpreted in any number of ways.

"Have you tried canvassing the neighborhood yet?"

Detective Preston shrugged. "Eh, we tried, but we haven't found anything yet." His demeanor had certainly changed since earlier. Scully made a mental note that Preston was probably already beginning to grow tired of these big-nosed feds meddling on his turf and interfering with his jurisdiction.

"Do you mind if I give it a shot myself, see if you missed anything?" Mulder's voice was quiet, but insistent. Preston shrugged again.

"Suit yourself. I've got other stuff to deal with right now. If you need me, you know how to reach me." And with that, the big man took his leave from the two agents, sliding through the crowd like an ocean liner through the sea, all the while calling out "Hey, someone get me a chisel or something over here. And a coffee, extra sugar!"

Scully shot a quick glance at Mulder and caught his eye. "Whatcha up to Mulder?"

"Oh, I don't know. I think that our good detective Preston here may be a little short in the charm department, so I think I'm going to see if I can't win over any hearts and minds."

"Do you want me to come along?"

"No, I think I'll be ok on my own."

Scully was secretly relieved. She was tired and to be perfectly frank just didn't have the energy to go chase down leads. She would be just as happy sitting in the morgue while her partner ran off to fill in the gaps of whatever crazy narrative he had no doubt already concocted. "All right then. I'll meet you over at the precinct morgue in a few hours then."

"You betcha Scully," he responded, heading for the door. "Just try to stay cool." And before she could even respond, her partner was out the door.

Mulder had had better days interviewing in the past, but not recently. After having spent the better part of two hours on patrol and canvassed most of dark, shadowy building from top to bottom, he had only actually had two people respond to his knocks, including the landlord. Although he knew for certain that most of the people whose doors he knocked on were home (unless the locals had a tendency to leave their TVs and radios on while they were gone), most had simply ignored him, evidentially preferring to be left alone than talk to the police. With only two apartments to go, Mulder braced himself for what would no doubt be another knuckle rap followed by silence.

Knocking on the door of apartment 21A with his left hand (his right had worn out long ago), Mulder stood and waited in the silence that followed. Nothing. Again. Downcast, Mulder turned away and began to walk down the hall. He was about to give up and finish on the last door when he was rewarded by hearing a slight click behind him. Ever so slowly he turned on his heel and looked back at the apartment on whose doorstep he had just been. Where before the door had been shut up and nothing but silence issued from within, the door had now creaked a hand's breath open. Intrigued, he slowly padded down the hall back towards the door.

The apartment was dark, but Mulder could still make out the door chain in the darkness. It smelled slightly musty, as if it had not been ventilated in quite a while. Instinct told him that there had to be someone behind the door out of sight, but his eyes showed him nothing. In the long silence that followed, he was keenly aware of a slight, raspy breathing emanating from the darkened room.

"Wvhat you vant?" The voice was tired, frightened. It carried the slight inflection of a non-native speaker and a hardness around the consonants that place its originator as being from central or eastern European stock. Considering the ethnic makeup of the neighborhood, Mulder thought he had a pretty good idea it was Russian in origin. Unsure of how to proceed, he braced himself and cautiously began his by now well-worn monologue.

"Sir, my name is Mulder, I'm with the FBI," he began, trying to sound as firm but approachable as possible. He briefly thought about reaching for his badge but thought the better of it. There was no need to startle the locals unnecessarily. "I'd like to ask you a few questions regarding-"

"I know nothing. You go now." The voice remained fairly even, but somewhere down below it had begun to crack, losing steam.

Mulder was uncertain what to do next. The man on the other side of the door had obviously thought long and hard about his knock and decided to answer the door. Why else would he be speaking with him if he didn't want to convey some information? Conversely, if Mulder pushed too hard now, he was liable to throw the hook. "Sir, I think you do know something," he began again, hoping he didn't startle the old man. "I don't want to get you in trouble, but if you know something, I need to speak with you."

Almost faster than Mulder's brain could register it, the door began to slam shut. Fortunately Mulder had on some unconscious, instinctual level already taken into consideration that possibility and before the door could shut he had jammed his foot between the door and the doorjamb, forcing open a precious 4-inch gap.

The voice on the other side of the door started with surprise and involuntarily Mulder winced. Pressure on his foot increased, taking hot bites out of his leather shoe, but to no avail. Pushing hard the old man tried to force it shut, but with Mulder's foot in the way, closing the door was not a possibility. Still, it didn't keep the man from trying.

"Look sir," Mulder resumed, speaking in a gravelly tone through clenched teeth. Although sturdy, his shoes were already beginning to let a little of the pain seep through to his foot. "I don't want to bother you any more-" he gave the door a sturdy shove, slightly relieving the pinch on his foot and forcing open another half inch, "-than I have to. But, if there's something you know about this crime that you haven't told anyone else, I _do_ need to hear it."

With equal determination the weight on the other side of the door seemed to increase. Slowly the slight gap that Mulder had forced was beginning to slide shut again. Placing his full right against the door, Mulder was surprised to see that he was powerless to stop its forward progress. Inch by inch, the thin wooden door reclaimed the empty space he had just moments before secured for himself, slowly clamping down on his shoe and the foot inside.

For a brief moment, Mulder panicked. He momentarily toyed with the idea of drawing his gun and forcing the door open, but immediately dismissed it out of hand. Such violence was almost certainly uncalled for and would not endear him to the locals any more than he already had been. The pressure on his foot was gradually increasing as the door chain grew slack. Beads of sweat had begun to appear on Mulder's brow and were beginning to slide own his face. What had once been a solid presence was now rapidly darkening to a very real and tangible sense of pain on the arch of his foot.

Biting his lip, he again redoubled his efforts to at least give himself some breathing space, hurling himself against the door as best he could. There was no tangible effect. Finally, as the pain graduated from a brow-knotting to a more tongue-biting level, Mulder felt he was going to have to scream. Although it would no doubt be comical in a few hours and probably cause him to loose considerable esteem with good old detective Preston, there was nothing else for it. In his mind's eye, he would almost see the spider web pattern of hairline fractures crinkling across the white bone beneath his flesh.

As quickly as it had begun, the door suddenly stopped moving. It gave no slack, but took none either and while Mulder was still poised to call out for help, he was just able to resist the temptation.

"You wvant to know wvhy this is happenink," the voice crept out from the murky depths of the darkened apartment. "Eh?" the tone was unfriendly, almost mocking. Mulder thought about taking offense, but some more primal instinct in his brain overwhelmed that particular social function: PAIN IN MY FOOT. STOP IT NOW, MULDER. "You really wvant to know what you are gettink into?" Through the searing red curtain which enmeshed his perception, Mulder could almost swear he heard the dry rustle of the old man's laugh creeping through the thin gap.

"Y-yes...." His voice was thin, empty sounding. A pause ensued, and finally the old man's voice resumed.

"Zis is His doing. Ze one vith the eye of shadows."

Through his clenched teeth Mulder attempted to get out a "what?" but found he was unable. All other resources of his brain had been taxed to their limit, charged with the task of finding resolution to the litany of _mygodithurtsmakeitstopnowpleasepleaseplease_. And as Mulder envisioned his foot being ground to a powder, his unasked question was answered for him in two words.

"Kas'ian Nemilostivyi."

As quickly as it had begun, the pain of Mulder's foot subsided as the gap in the doorway eased by perhaps a quarter of a inch. As quickly as he could, Mulder wrenched his foot out of the doorway, staggering back against the wall of the corridor as he did so. A million and one sensations flooded back across his brain like a snowy avalanche in the Sahara. Pulling off his shoe as gently and as speedily as he was capable of, Mulder slid inspected the damage.

It was several full minutes before he could gather up the strength to focus on anything other than his foot. When he did finally look up, he was unsurprised to see the corridor seemingly undisturbed and the door for apartment 21A firmly shut, seemingly oblivious to the drama which had just unfolded. While he was angry and in pain, Mulder knew better than to force the issue then and there. Although he could certainly have the man arrested and put away for assaulting a federal agent, such actions might prove to be counter-productive. After all, at least he now had a name to work with and his foot didn't seem to have suffered any permanent damage. And yet, a little reconnaissance never hurt. As he slowly massaged his foot back to life and put his shoe back on, Mulder made a mental note to ask the landlord who exactly lived behind the door of apartment 21A and what year the occupant had earned his Olympic gold medal for weightlifting.

Thanks for all the feedback guys! Feel free to leave more or contact me at my e-mail address.


	3. Chapter 3

8031 E. River St.

5:26 p.m. March 17th, 1996

Sasha Khostov was a big man. Although he usually did his best to conceal his considerable bulk under tailor-made suits and expensive leather jackets, in the privacy of his own office and home he usually opted for jeans and sweatshirts. In a way it didn't really matter, considering that the blinds were always drawn and his bodyguards at the front door always let him know well in advance who was waiting for an audience. If it was someone who needed to be impressed by the way he dressed, his men could always tell the visitor that he'd just stepped out and would be back in an hour.

Khostov had done well since arriving in America some ten years earlier. Although the going hadn't always been easy and the outcome had at times been uncertain, Sasha had possessed the exact level of charm, savvy and brutality to ensure a quick rise to power here in Cleveland. When he had arrived in America a few years earlier he was just a poor immigrant with barely enough connections to land a job working at the docks. And now he had become what he always wanted to be ever since having left his mother country: the _boyar,_ the lord of his domain.

Sasha was in the midst of his reflections, casually smoking a thick cigar and sipping at the glass of scotch on his desk when a knock at the door snapped him back to reality. That had to be Konstantin. Or perhaps maybe Misha. It was hard to keep track of who was on duty at what times these days. Clearing his throat, he said a single word: "_Da_." To say more would be to waste breath on his underlings and risk giving them an inflated sense of self-worth. To ignore them completely would be to risk missing out on an important meeting. The office door cracked open ever so slightly, spilling a thin strip of yellow light onto the luxurious burgundy rug.

"There's someone here to see you, boss." That was Konstantin. Despite the Russian name, he was pure Brooklyn, third generation. For that matter, Sasha didn't even think he was actually Russian, but perhaps Ukrainian. Just the same he was a loyal and capable soldier and that was enough. "It's Oleg."

Oleg. The name brought mixed reactions to Sasha. It was getting late and before long he would be going off to do his rounds in Little Odessa. He didn't really have much time to waste mingling with the little people who helped run his little empire. Usually a pat on the head and an extra hundred in the pocket was good enough for them. _Then again_, thought Sasha to himself, slowly puffing his cigar, _it's the little people who make the show happen_.

"Send him in," he said. Konstantin nodded and retreated back into the main room. "And close the door on the way out."

"So, what's on your mind, _tovarish?_" smiled Sasha a few minutes later after drinks and pleasantries had been exchanged. Of course neither man really cared about the other's personal life and family, but the ritual was observed just the same. Sasha supposed that proper decorum had to be observed one way or another in order to ensure a strong sense of community. And of course, to further emphasize his role as just another "little man" who had made good and was now giving it back to the community, not some pretentious blueblood who sneered at his less fortunate countrymen.

"Well..." began Oleg, avoiding Sasha's gaze. A heavy silence followed.

"...well?"

"Did you hear about Piotyr?" the spindly little man with bad teeth blurted out, finally wrenching his gaze up from the floor and laying it on Sasha's face. The emotions which fluttered across his face were indistinct but all carried the same odor: that of fear.

Sasha took a deep puff of his cigar, leaning back in his luxurious leather chair as he did so. The dim light in the room obscured many of his facial features, enwreathing him in shadows. How to proceed? He had, of course, been one of the first people to find out about the death. Gossip traveled fast in the neighborhood and it hadn't been long before the big man himself had been alerted to the news. He himself knew frustratingly little about the death itself, but at the same time knew better than to overplay his hand. He didn't want to appear ignorant before his boys, but at the same time didn't want to look stupid if he made something up now and was later proven wrong. One way or another, he wasn't at war with any particular group; the Jamaicans hadn't been causing trouble since October and the Italians had been pretty much shut down the year before in a major Department of Justice sting. There was no one stupid or strong enough to take on Sasha now.

"Yeah, I heard," he finally said, slowly exhaling a cloud of ruddy-colored smoke as he did so. "Damn shame, eh?" Oleg was back to studying his hands again, unable or unwilling to look the boss in the eye.

"Yeah..." he muttered, his voice little more than an unintelligible mumble.

"Did you hear any of the details?" Sasha kept his tone even but was being gnawed upon from the inside. There were plenty of chances that this was another one of those "accidental" deaths that seemed to have been cropping up in town, but if there was trouble brewing, he had to be in the know. No one got the drop on Sasha Khostov.

The weasely little man shook his head emphatically. To Sasha he looked like a dog trying to dry himself out. "Naw boss, naw. I didn't hear nothing about that. Just that he was dead is all."

"Is that what's bothering you?" asked Sasha, trying his best to appear magnanimous. "He was a friend of yours too, wasn't he?" He was trying to sound as much like a father figure as he could, but somehow he didn't think he was pulling it off very well. In any case the effort would be largely wasted on a little squirt like Oleg whose only father had probably been appointed by the state.

"Well...the thing is..." Oleg began again, scratching the back of his neck. _Yes, _though Sasha, _definitely a weasel in his previous life._ "It's just that...ya know...I was wondering if that might have had something to do with Lev."

_Something to do with Lev._ Those five words encapsulated the exact thoughts which had been running around in circles in Sasha's head since he had first heard of Piotyr's death earlier that morning. By God, if only he knew the answer to that question. Smiling uneasily, Oleg was studying Sasha's desk. At least he had grown a little more spine since he had last spoken.

Reaching into his bottom-most desk drawer, Sasha pulled out a second glass and the bottle which he had been working on ever so slowly since earlier in the week. Pouring himself another drink and then filling Oleg's glass, he replaced the cap on the bottle and set it down heavily on the desk. Oleg looked up at him with a mixture of tension and anxiety.

"Now Oleg," began Sasha again, snubbing his cigar out in the silver ashtray atop his desk. "You know that Lev's death was ruled accidental."

"Accidental how??" blurted out Oleg, cutting off his boss in mid-thought. "How did he die? They never gave us any details, just that he'd died and that he'd probably hurt himself falling down in his apartment." His claw-like hands were trembling, the glass threatening to spill at any moment. Normally Sasha would have crushed Oleg like a cockroach at the first sign of his disrespect, but instead he let it slide. In a way he understood the man's frustration and fear. He held nothing but contempt for both emotions, but at least he understood why Oleg felt the way he did.

"Oleg, Oleg, Oleg." Sasha turned the "caring father" routine up a notch. The man stared at him with sad, glum eyes. "What happened to Lev was an accident. We know that. He was a good guy and I miss him as much as you do. But trust me-" his voice had gone cold. "- if this was anything other than a freak accident, if anyone had decided to take it upon himself to hurt one of my boys, don't you think I'd come down on him hard? Don't you think I'd know? Don't you think I'd find the bastard who did it and bury him so deep and in so many places they'd never find him? Eh?" Oleg slowly nodded, seemingly calmed.

"That's right," resumed Sasha, his voice carefully normal again. "So, how are things up on your end? Business good?"

Nodding vigorously, the small man began rattling off a long list of who was doing what, who owed who how much and who he suspected of not paying up the full amount of protection money. Sasha pretended to listen carefully, but in truth he didn't really care. Oleg was a good worker and a stand-up guy, but at the same time it wouldn't help the business if he started getting soft or flaky. One way or another it was too early to tell.

Fifteen minutes later Oleg offered his excuses and went on his way, seemingly reassured. He wasn't really a bad guy Sasha mused to himself, finishing off his third drink and he stood up. It just wasn't like him to get so spooked about something. Of course, Oleg had gone through the same school of hard knocks as the rest of them, growing up on the streets and had proven to be a capable worker in the past. The death of a close friend and business associate could affect anyone. Now, if he could just fine out more about what had really happened to Piotyr and if there was trouble brewing again with the Jamaicans. Setting his glass back down on the table, he called for Konstantin. "Get the car," he muttered at the man when he stuck his head through the door a few seconds later. "Its time to go on our rounds."

- - - - -

City Coroner's Office- District 2

6:03 p.m. March 17th, 1996

The lighting in the room was harsh, but that was to be expected of such facilities. In all her years doing dissections and autopsies in two dozen various counties across the country, never once had Scully had the opportunity to work in a nice, comfortable room. Not that it really mattered too much. Autopsies were meant to be sanitary and sterile, not warm and comfy. It wasn't like the bodies on the slab and in the cooler would be filing complaints with the county anytime in the near future. As such, examination room B was prepared as best as could be hoped under the circumstances: well-lit, clean, and fairly new. She had seen far worse.

It had taken the better part of two hours to get the victim suitably thawed out so that he could be detached from the floor. The techs assisting her had seemed suitably unimpressed, but deep down Scully suspected they were being devoured by curiosity. She herself was intrigued by the frozen corpse seared to the kitchen floor, but like the rest of the police officers on the scene, kept her surprise to herself. Detective Preston had vanished soon after the operation had began, no doubt having more important business to attend to than watching some G-woman use a blow-drier on a corpse. Although they had gotten the body off the floor and to the morgue by 3:30 that afternoon, only now was the corpse sufficiently thawed to allow a detailed dissection and autopsy to begin.

Sliding on her blue latex gloves, Scully tested her tape recorder and placed it on the instrument table next to her, the red "Rec" light on the tape deck seemingly providing the only real color in the room. Reaching forward to the lumpy figure splayed out on the cold, metal table in front of her, she turned back the white sheet and got to work.

"Subject is Piotyr Yumashev, a twenty-seven year-old Caucasian male, approximately 5 foot 11 inches tall, weight indeterminate, 150 pounds according to the subject's driver's license." Reaching to the tools on the table, she grabbed the first of her implements (in this case a rather large scalpel) and began the delicate work of performing an autopsy, starting with the preliminary Y-cut which proceeded all explorations of the deeper body cavity.

It couldn't have been more than fifteen minutes when she was startled by a hand tapping her left shoulder. Spinning on her heel she found herself facing a tried-looking Mulder.

"Mulder," she began, hoping she didn't sound too startled. He simply looked at her. "Geez Mulder, you scared me. Don't sneak up on me like that."

"Yeah. Sorry about that." Mulder walked around the autopsy table, carefully surveying the body as he did so. Amazingly, he seemed to hold whatever smart-alec remarks he might have been brewing to himself. He'd had a long day and as such Scully was not particularly surprised.

"So..." he began again, seemingly feigning interest. "Whatcha got Scully?"

"Nothing yet Mulder. As a matter of fact I was just getting started here."

Mulder's eyebrows arched. "You mean you only just got to work?" Shrugging, Scully gesticulated to the fresh cuts on the body's chest. "Man, you weren't kidding when you said he was frozen solid. How long has it been?"

"Just a couple of hours." Looking down, she reached up and adjusted the light-stalk which hung from the ceiling to better direct the light on the rapidly-deepening incision into Piotyr Yumashev's body cavity. "I haven't found anything particularly interesting yet Mulder. As far as I can tell everything I'm seeing here is consistent with hypothermia: the frostbite, the damage to the extremities, the skin color, the massive amounts of tissue damage...not to mention the presence of ice particles in the blood vessels." She paused. Mulder appeared to be examining the body closely. "As far as I can tell," she resumed, "this man simply froze to death, pure and simple."

"Except for the fact that he was indoors with the heating turned up on a night where the mercury never dropped below 30 degrees." He looked up. "I'd say that's a little interesting, don't you think?" Scully audibly exhaled. She knew where this was going. It was showtime for Mulder's big theory and no matter how silly or ludicrous it might sound to her, she knew better than to try shutting him down in mid-conversation. No, she had found over the previous two and a half years that it was generally better just to let him get it off his chest and then try to burst his bubble with cold, hard facts than allow herself to get emotionally attached to the outcome and have it become a contest of wills between science and fantasy, Scully and Mulder.

"Ok Mulder," she began carefully, hoping to avoid setting him off or sounding overly dismissive. She'd had plenty of practice with situations such as these before, but she was still refining her approach to dealing with him. He was a tough guy to predict and prone to having his feelings hurt when she least expected it. "What do you think is going on?"

To her surprise, he didn't answer immediately. Instead he merely looked at the corpse on the table, seemingly examining the harsh play of white light interlacing with the shadows in the otherwise darkened room.

"I don't know what's going on Scully." Scully was perplexed. He gave her an amused look. "What? Do I have something crawling out of my ear that shouldn't be there?" In spite of herself, Scully chuckled.

"Mulder, it's just that we've been doing this for years and I can't ever recall a time when you haven't at least had a theory of some kind to explain an incredible occurrence."

"Oh, don't worry," he cut in, his eyes gleaming. "I said I don't _know_ what's going on. That doesn't mean there aren't plenty of theories playing around in the attic there Scully."

"Did you get anything useful from your interviews this afternoon? I haven't seen you in a while."

"You mean besides a bruised foot and half a dozen Russian swear words?" This time it was Scully's turn to appear intrigued. Picking up on her he simply said "Long story. I'll tell you later. What do _you_ think, Dr. Scully?" he asked, abruptly bringing them back on subject. "I just know you have some juicy, fact-filled theorem hiding on your clipboard there."

Scully began to raise her voice in protest but instead simply answered his question. "Mulder, there are plenty of possible explanations. I mean, he could have been frozen before in another location and moved to his apartment, he could have been killed as a result of a mob killing-"

"-which doesn't explain how he got stuck to the floor or how the door was locked and chained from the inside with no signs of forced entry other than that which the landlord made to get in." A triumphant little smile.

"If you would let me finish," a trace of annoyance passed over her face. Mulder raised his hands defensively.

"Sorry. Please continue."

"As I was saying, we also can't discount the possibility that this wasn't some sort of endothermic internal reaction or a freak accident. I 'd have to do some research but I do believe the Air Force did some studies back in the 1950s where they were able to cause spontaneous freezing in super cooled water droplets."

"Water droplets?" He looked amused.

"It's a long shot Mulder, but it makes a hell of a lot more sense than aliens or ghosts or-"

"-vengeful spirits?"

"Or that." Looking up at the clock on the far wall, Scully saw that it was nearly 7:00 p.m. It was getting late and she hadn't had lunch or dinner. "Mulder," she began, her voice beginning to wear thin, "it's been a long day and I have a hell of a lot more work to do before I can call this a night and I've got a million other things to take care of."

Straightening up, her partner nodded. "I hear ya Scully. Do you wanna take a break or something?"

"What? And get finished even later?" Scully hoped she didn't sound too impatient, but at this point the would just have to deal with it. He'd survived. Thankfully, Mulder seemed nonplussed.

"Ok Scully. I've got a lot of information to sift through tonight anyway, so why don't I meet you someplace whenever you get done? We can get coffee or something. Besides," his eyes flashed with a playful fire, "if your stomach growls any louder that guy on the slab is gonna sit up and ask for some ear plugs." Scully attempted to hide her smile, failed miserably, and instead gave up and merely chortled with laughter.

"Ah," her partner continued, grinning, "your sense of humor did in fact come along with her on this trip. I was starting to worry there for a while. See you in a while then Scully," he said, his voice slowly echoing slightly in the cold marble tiling of the examination room. And as his footsteps slowly faded away, Agent Scully picked up her scalpel and, keying the "Pause" button on her tape recorder, got back to work.


	4. Chapter 4

Easy-E 24-Hour Diner,  
11:06 p.m. March 17th, 1996

The coffee wasn't the greatest. Four packs of sugar and two creamers later, he could still taste the after wash of roasted beans on the back of his tongue. However, it was a little after eleven o'clock and Mulder had learned long ago that just because an eatery claimed to be open twenty-four hours a day didn't mean the quality didn't drop sharply after normal operating hours. All things considered, it could have been a lot worse.

The dull white light which the cracked neon tubes on the ceiling provided flickered on and off intermittently. In a far-off corner behind the counter the night shift waitress, a big woman with a birthmark under her right eye, stood idly, reading a stay issue of People Magazine and twisting a strand of her curly red hair. Cracking his neck, Mulder waited a few more minutes before giving in to boredom and signaling the waitress in the corner to bring him another cup. Catching her attention at last, she put aside her magazine and strode up the aisle, coffee pot in hand, easily guessing what Mulder's request would be.

"More creamers, hon?" she asked, digging her hand into a pocket of her apron as she poured him a fresh cup.

"No thanks," he replied, carefully sliding his manila folders out of the way in order to avoid dripping any of the hot brew on his files. It was an instinctive gesture; he sincerely doubted that anyone besides himself and Scully would ever have to look at them, but he was nothing if not careful with his precious X-Files.

"You sure are working late tonight, huh?" He looked up and caught the bemused, half-friendly and half-apologetic look on the waitress' face.

"Yeah. I'm not the only one apparently." He winced as those words shot out of his mouth, he hadn't meant to sound harsh. But instead of taking offense the big woman ("Venus" according to her nametag) merely snorted with what he could only assume was mirth. "I'm actually waiting for my partner to join me."

"What? You mean they actually make two of you stay up this late at night to work?"

Mulder nodded. "Or at least, I tend to and she has to go along with it."

Venus chortled. Leaning in, a mischievous twinkle lit up her eye. "I dunno hon, if I had a good-looking thing like you to work with, I don't think they'd have any trouble getting me to put in some extra hours." The wry humor caught Mulder off-guard. Before he could open his mouth and give her a witty reply, the doorbell chimed as a slim, well-dressed redhead walked in.

Venus turned around to observe the new arrival and, seeing her heading down the aisle towards the pair of them, she straightened up and turned to face the newly-arrived Scully.

"Hey there sweetie." Her voice was warm and friendly. "What can I get for ya?"

"Some coffee would be great, thanks." After three hours of steelworkers, Cleveland Browns, and Nascar Scully's careful, cultured voice seemed as out of place in the late-night diner as a grand piano, but to Mulder it felt like a breath of fresh air. She was obviously fairly tired, but none the worse for wear. Pouring out what was left of the pot into the second ceramic mug on the table, Venus laid a few more sugars for good measure and then slid back up the aisle, evidentially eager to finish up the story on People's "Sexiest Man Alive" for 1996.

"Gee Scully," Mulder's voice had taken the tone he usually reserved for minor annoyances, "I was about to get my first date in years and you just had to show up and blow it."

Scully's eyebrows arched. "What? You mean your precious filing cabinet finally broke down and proposed?"

Mulder broke out laughing. "Scully?" he tried to say between breaths, "I think that's the funniest thing you've said all year."

"Well, it's only March Mulder, give it some time." Slipping her spoon into her coffee cup, she reached for two of the pink packets on the table and ripped them open. Mulder waited, wanting to give Scully enough time to unwind. She had, after all, been in the morgue for the last few hours and he didn't want to pick her brains immediately. To his relief, she began on her own.

"Well Mulder," she said after having taken two gulps from her mug, "you're probably wondering what I've managed to come up with over the last couple hours."

"Gee, Scully, you read my mind." Stirring his coffee, he took another sip. Placing the mug down on the table, she reached into her briefcase and pulled out a single, slim brown folder. Instead of opening it as he expected she would, she laid it down on the table and slid it over to him. As he reached for it, she began.

"Mulder, I don't know what to say." It was a statement devoid of any particular emotion. She wasn't frustrated, frightened, or tired as far as he could tell. Merely curious. Opening the folder, he ran his eyes over the autopsy forms and the half a dozen snapshots taken of the victim on the table.

"As we first suspected, the victim indeed appears to have been frozen. All the telltale signs are there such as frostbite, the extreme blistering of outer tissue, not to mention the fact that we observed and touched his body at the apartment. While he had mostly thawed out by the time we got him on the table, his internal organs remained mostly frozen. That's one of the reasons it took so long for me to get over here." Nodding, Mulder slowly turned the pages and soaked up the relevant data. Everything appeared consistent with their initial findings.

"That of course, is not really a surprise Mulder," her tone betraying a certain sense of foreboding an anticipation. _Yup_, thought Mulder to himself, _here it comes_. "The big question of course is, how did he get there, and how did it happen, two questions which I am unable to answer at this time. But..." her eyes caught his "...I'm sure you have a theory, right Mulder."

Feigning surprise, Mulder replaced the file on the table and raised his hands in a defensive manner. "C'mon doctor Scully, aren't all scientific and medical breakthroughs first preceded by a theory which, no matter how absurd it may first appear, proves to be true in the long run." Scully reached behind her head and began to retie her loosening ponytail.

"Ok, Mulder. For the sake of expediency, I'll cut to the chase. What do you think is going on here. Aliens?" The moment the words were out of her mouth, she regretted them.

Mulder looked down, his eyes catching on a slight blemish on the white-brown enamel of the tabletop. "Scully, I hope I strike you as a little more skeptical than that." Looking back up, he was surprised to see Scully's soft green eyes fixed on his.

"Look Mulder," she said, her hands replacing the hair tie in its place and then dropping back to her knees. "I didn't mean to say that. It's just that..." pausing, she sighed. "It's just that it's getting late, I'm exhausted, and to be honest I'm kind of frustrated at having to come all the way out here to investigate a crime which, while intriguing, is hardly something I'd like to be giving up my weekend for. So, if I sound a little..." a lightly longer pause as she searched for the right word.

"-bitter?" He smiled, feigning innocence. She shot a relieved faux scowl at him.

"I was going to say 'flustered' but thanks for the help there Mulder. But if I sound a tiny bit flustered or tired or bitter, I'm sorry. I don't mean to sound dismissive, I hope you know that."

"I understand completely," he replied, nodding his head vigorously. "I know it isn't always easy to work with me, but I appreciate it just the same. And," glancing down at his watch, "I will cut to the chase so that we can retreat to the hotel and you can get your beauty rest and I can catch the late-night news."

"You mean the 'adults only' pay-per-view channels?"

Mulder shrugged. "I've seen them all already." Scully's lips turned up into a slight smile.

"So, Mulder, what's the theory?"

"Scully, what do you know about spontaneous human combustion?"

Her eyes narrowed. "You mean when people magically just explode into big balls of fire and are totally consumed?"

"Something like that."

"Well Mulder," she began, wracking her brain. "As best as I can remember its usually dismissed by most within the mainstream scientific community as little more than pseudo science. If I recall correctly it relies on the idea that the fat stores within the human body somehow get ignited and the person burns to death from the inside in a slow, agonizing death sequence."

Slowly nodding, Mulder dissolved the contents of a fresh packets of sugar into his coffee and stirred it in. "That's right Scully. Although SHC is often completely dismissed out of hand, there have been several cases of seemingly miraculous explosions centered on people who seem to just burst into flames and go on to burn in a spectacular fashion, only leaving a pile of ash behind.

"Yes Mulder, that's the theory. However like I said before, scientists continue to dismiss this idea on the basis that many attempts have been made to replicate this process on pig carcasses with little or no results and that the few cases of supposed SHC that have been submitted for scientific review to the authorities have usually proven to be cases of arson or murder, or people faking their own deaths." Draining what remained of her mug, Scully flagged down Venus and ordered another round. When she was safely out of earshot, she continued.

"Besides, what does this have to do with anything? The victims were frozen solid in their apartments, not burnt."

"Yes, but there are similarities. I mean, here we have two victims, each found frozen solid so that even their internal organs need to be thawed, apparently safe and sound in their apartments. The fact that these people were frozen and that the other people exploded into flames doesn't mean the same mechanism couldn't be at work."

"Well, yes Mulder, but that doesn't mean anything. Just because a man freezes to death in his apartment doesn't mean that he was the victim of some kind of crazy attack. I mean, sure it might sound implausible but we can't rule out that the men didn't forget to turn the heat on and froze to death."

"Come on Scully, the landlord said that the entire place is run off of central heating so if the unit fails in one apartment, it fails in them all. Furthermore, we both know that it hasn't dropped below freezing in Cleveland in over two weeks and that Yumashev was seen alive and well only two days ago when he was taking out the trash."

"Well, Mulder, it may sound crazy, but it's also possible that he was the victim of some kind of catastrophic internal reaction. I mean, I did a little reading on this before I came on over and I know that there has been a lot of work done in the last twenty years on the chemical properties of cooling. You know those icepacks you get in sports stores? It's been shown that ammonium nitrate when mixed with water causes a drastic endothermic reaction which can lead to spontaneous freezing."

It was Mulder's turn to raise his eyebrows. "You're telling me this guy ate an icepack?"

"I know it sounds crazy Mulder, but the principle could be the same. There are a dozen different ways to make an endothermic reaction occur, and maybe Yumashev just accidentally stumbled on a new one by some freak chemical accident. I mean, people kill themselves all the time when they accidentally mix bleach and ammonia in the toilet bowl and make chlorine gas."

Mulder was silent for a moment as he chewed on his plastic stirring stick, immersed in thought. Scully sat back in her booth, giving him time to collect his thoughts. Finally, he broke the silence.

"That's all very interesting Scully."

"But?"

"But I don't buy it. I mean, there are too many random factors to consider, too many implausabilities, like the heating in the apartment, the fact that the two men lived in the same neighborhood and were killed within days of each other. No, I think we're looking at something a lot less random than a couple of freak accidents."

"You think this was some kind of murder?"

"Well, we do have a precedent for it. You remember Cecil L'Ively? From two years ago."

Scully began twirling her hair absently. In a flash of afterthought Mulder noted that she shared more than just her hair color with Venus, she apparently had the same hair-twirling habits as well.

"You mean the arson suspect in Massachusetts? The case we had with Inspector Green?"

Mulder winced at Phoebe's name but nodded.

"Yeah, he's the one. But you do remember the details of the case, right? I mean, the man was a total and complete pyrokinetic. We watched him manipulate flames and pull them out of thin air on more than one occasion. If someone like him is capable of setting other people on fire, why shouldn't someone be able to do the same process only in reverse, freezing them to death?"

"Mulder..." she sighed, her voice sounding painfully thin, "we've been over this. Cecil L'Ively was a serial arsonist with a particular streak of sadism and a flair for the theatrical. Just because a guy says he can manipulate flames doesn't mean he's not working things behind the scenes."

"Granted Scully, but then again the investigation into the physical nature of L'Ively was sort of hampered by the fact that he died two weeks after his arrest as the result of his massive burns. We have no way of knowing what the man was truly capable of."

Raising her hands in a half-hearted protest, Scully shrugged. "Have if your way Mulder. Now, if it's all the same to you, can we continue this conversation in the morning. I'm about ready to drop."

"Of course Scully." Guessing at their purpose or perhaps merely eavesdropping, Venus appeared at the table second later with the check.

"All right kids, total comes to $18.63 with tax."

"$18.63?" Mulder's voice rose in protest. "But we've only had coffee."

"That's right sugar, about five pots worth." Placing her hands on her broad hips, Venus cracked a wide grin. "So, you gonna be a gentleman and pick up the tab, or are you and your lady friend sleeping in separate rooms tonight?"

Glancing over at Scully, Mulder shot her a roguish grin. Rolling her eyes, Scully took her files and slid them back into her briefcase.

"Both, as a matter of fact." she replied, cheerfully inserting a tone of false annoyance into her voice. "I have to call home Mulder, so I'll meet you outside." And with that, she slid out of the booth and went to use her phone, leaving a sheepish looking Mulder to fumble for his government-issue travel-reimbursement card under Venus' puzzled gaze.


	5. Chapter 5

St. Gregorios' Fields of Mercy,

10:36 a.m., March 18th, 1996

With a heavy metallic clink, Earl's dirt-encrusted spade bit deep into the moist earth, tearing into the sod with a faint (yet clearly audible) ripping sound as the grass gave way. Taking a heavy drag from his cigarette, the wiry little man spun on his heel and with a slight grunt tossed the solid chunk of black soil down into the deep hole he had dug the night before. Under his breath he was humming a merry little tune and went about his business in a way that Scully couldn't help but flash back to memories of high school English and the semester spent on Hamlet. Next to her Mulder carefully studied his notes, seemingly wrapped up in the details of the case.

Although it was midmorning traces of fog still draped the hollows and gently rolling terrain of the cemetery like the burial shrouds Scully could picture under the earth. The crowd had mostly dissipated by now and the few mourners who remained were being carefully herded back towards the main path of the cemetery towards the waiting cars by their loved ones and friends. Earl (or at least, the man with that name stitched onto the front of his shirt) paid them no attention as he diligently proceeded with his work. The dark cherry wood of the casket was now nearly totally obscured by the rapidly growing layers of loam being thrown down on it by the gravedigger as he toiled. In the distance, she could make out a broad figure in flowing gold and black robes shaking the last few hands of the departing mourners and slowly turning to make his way back up towards the grave.

"Hey Earl?" Mulder began, disrupting the silence which had settled on the scene, broken only by the rhythmic _shlanks _of the old man's shovel.

"Yeah?" The gray-haired laborer never broke stride. The right side of his grizzled face creased into a mass of leathery wrinkles as he struggled to speak and balance the cigarette between his lips at the same time.

"I don't mean to try to tell you how to do you job or anything, but wouldn't it be a lot easier to use a backhoe or something? I mean," Mulder looked up, "it'd be a lot faster, wouldn't it?"

The old man shook his head, causing a wisp of fine gray strands to float free from the top of his thin hair. "Naw, not really. They," his hand broke free from his shovel just long enough for him to gesture towards the departing mourners with a gnarled and callused thumb, "don't like it when I use a backhoe to bury their dead. Something about the noise and the smoke disrupting the peace of this place or something like that I suspect." Exhaling a thin trail of blue-gray smoke, Earl turned and deposited another load of dirt into the grave. "The saints and church fathers didn't say nothing about using a gas-belching machine to inter their dead, and the Orthodox ain't exactly the types to innovate much."

"Hence the term 'Orthodox.'" This time it was Scully's turn to speak. Earl shrugged.

"Hell, they get pissed if ya just take the guy out of the church the wrong way, head-first instead of feet-first. 'scuse me, but it's not like the guy's gonna notice now, is it?"

"They paying you overtime for this then?" Mulder caught the man's twinkling eye.

"You bet your ass sonny," he replied, the tip of his cigarette glowing angrily in the soft gray light of another overcast day.

As Mulder and Scully stood beside Earl digesting the small man's words, the figure in the black and gold robes closed the distance between the road and the grave and approached the trio, his stride slow yet confident. As he drew closer, Mulder stepped forward and once the man was in range, extended his hand.

"Morning father, thanks for agreeing to see us on such short notice."

"Oh, no trouble," replied the priest, his thick black beard and majestic clothing belying a strong and youthful American-accented voice. To Scully, accustomed as she was to the formality of a Catholic upbringing, the two seemed surprisingly incompatible with each other. "I'm just sorry that I couldn't agree to see you earlier, but as you can see I was pretty busy this morning."

Earl had stopped his shoveling and paused just long enough to light himself a fresh cigarette. Scully noted that he had been careful to replace the butt of his last smoke in his front shirt pocket.

"And this is?" the priest began, smiling as he turned towards Scully.

"Agent Dana Scully," she said before Mulder could make the introduction. "I'm Agent Mulder's partner."

"Charmed Ms. Scully. I'm Father Robert Kalashnikov, but my friends call me Bob or Bobby. It's a lot better than 'Kalash' or '47,' don't you think?" In spite of herself Scully smiled. The priest smiled back. "Well then, since we've all been introduced, why don't we all head back to the rectory? Mrs. Dushanka has made coffee and it'd be a lot more comfortable if we talked in there."

"Sounds great," Mulder interjected before Scully could respond.

"Excellent, excellent. Earl, would you be so kind as to swing by my office when you're done here, I have some things to give to you before you leave."

Earl nodded and with a good heave plunged his spade back into the dark soil and resumed his shoveling. And with that, the trio started down the hill towards the rectory, the only sounds besides the quiet thump of their footfalls in the moist sod being Earl's off-key humming and the steady _schlink_ of his tool.

- - - - -

Fifteen minutes later the coffee was served. Father Kalashnikov had long since exchanged his beautiful robes and hat for the more mundane black suit and white collar of the priesthood. Mrs. Dushanka, a wizened old grandmother who spoke little English had silently deposited the tray with the coffee pot, cups, and condiments on a small table off to the side of the office and left the room, closing the door behind her.

It was a pretty office and reminded Scully of all the times she had given confession in Father McMurron's cozy little nook at Saint Mary's as a child. The walls were covered with rows and rows of bookshelves and hand-painted icons depicting the various saints, prophets, and church fathers.

"So, what can I do for you agents?" began Father Kalashnikov as he sat back in his chair, slowly stirring his coffee. The soft white and blue china looked out of place in his gigantic paw of a hand. "You weren't too specific over the phone with the details of your case."

"Actually, I was wondering if you would be able to give us some information regarding the Russian community here in Cleveland." Mulder reached forward for the sugar as he spoke, carefully steering around the saucer of milk in the center of the tray. "Granted, I know that you're a priest and as such governed by strict rules of secrecy and privacy regarding the specifics of your flock's private lives, but as you can tell, we're not exactly native to the area."

Father Kalashnikov slowly sipped the coffee and placed the cup back on its plate on the desk, tugging at his beard thoughtfully as he did so. "Well, I really don't know what to tell you, at least insofar as what it is you're looking for. The people here in Cleveland are a mixture of recent immigrants from eastern and central Europe and people who have been here for several generations. Some are more Americanized than others."

"What about their economic condition and social status?" The priest's eyebrows arched at Scully's first question. "Surely you can tell us something about that."

A long pause followed during which Kalashnikov seemed to be gathering his words. At length he spoke. "I really don't like to make generalizations about the Russian community as a group here, Agent Scully. I'm sure you understand. But, it's no secret that many of them are fairly poor. They live in some pretty tough neighborhoods in the inner city down by the flats. They have few employment opportunities and a lot of them, especially the new arrivals, don't trust the authorities much. Given what they've been through in the Soviet Union and then Russia, I really don't blame them."

"Would you say that many of them fall victim to crime?" Mulder already knew the answer to that question; the Cleveland PD had been more than willing to share its information on dozens of ongoing investigations in the Pushkin street neighborhood. Just the same it seemed worthwhile to get a second opinion. The priest sighed and folded his hands across his lap.

"Again, I don't like to make generalizations," he began, prefacing his response with the well-practiced evasiveness of the clergy. "These people are honest and just want to get a fresh start here in America. They don't want to cause any trouble."

"But..." It was Scully's turn to press home on the matter.

"But...unfortunately, people who are hurt, desperate, and have few options more often than not fall victim to the machinations of unscrupulous and violent people. Such is the way of the world Agent Scully. As a law enforcement agent, I'm sure you realize that." Father Kalashnikov's voice had become heavy, seemingly burdened by the weight of his ministries. "I do what I can to help them, but more often than not by the time I get involved it's too late. All I can do is bury them. Like the Dashkov boy the week before last."

Mulder replaced his cup on the table and sat back in his chair, comfortable but attentive. "What was the situation with him?"

"Sad story really. Poor Andrei went out for drinks one night and never came home. The police found him in a dumpster the next morning. He'd been beaten and then shot to death. The police haven't made any progress but they suspect its linked to organized crime."

"Did you perform the funeral services for him?" Scully probed. The priest began to shake his head and then, catching himself, slowly nodded.

"You seem a bit thoughtful there, father." Mulder locked eyes with the priest who refused to meet his gaze. "Was he not one of your parishioners?"

"Well...it's complicated, " replied Kalashnikov, clearly uneager to give away too many details. "His mother and he are of a different sect, a group called 'the Old Believers.' Its a complicated affair and involves a lot of old church history and episcopal rivalry. Suffice to say the Old Believers are to the Orthodox church what the ultra traditionalist Marians and the 'Empty Throne' groups are to the Catholic church. They're Orthodox, in many respects, but in many ways they're not."

"How so?" This time it was Scully's turn to speak. She was of course familiar with the Catholic sects Kalashnikov was referring to. She herself could remember as a child coming across a few of them time and again, denouncing the mass said in English and the uppity reforms of Vatican II. However, this conversation was entering uncharted territory. Looking across at Mulder, she saw him leaning forward, eagerly soaking up the priest's words. Instead of a great exposition, Kalashnikov merely shrugged again.

"It doesn't really matter. It's all ancient history as they say. Basically there was a big conflict in the 17th century over whether or not the Orthodox church in Russia should stay Greek-oriented or should adopt more Russian elements. The Old Believers were much more pro-Russian. They lost and were forced to flee deep into the wilderness and forests of Siberia to escape the wrath of the Tsar. But..." he sighed, reaching for the sugar tongs as he did so, "that's all water under the bridge. Officially, we're all more or less back together."

"But unofficially?" The priest's cold gray eyes slowly slid across the desk and locked on Mulder. Instead of flinching, Mulder stood his ground. Scully was about to say something, anything, to break the tension when Kalashnikov spoke again.

"Unofficially, Agent Mulder, people have long memories. Especially the Old Believers."

A heavy silence hung over the room for several moments. Then, as if to punctuate the priest's statements, the distant peal of chimes began to ring out. Father Kalashnikov hurriedly pushed back his sleeve and examined his watch. "Good heavens, look at the time," he exclaimed and he stood up and reached for the napkins on the tray. "I'd forgotten that I had a baptism today. If you will excuse me, I need to change."

On queue both agents stood up, closing their notebooks and adjusting their clothes as needed. Mulder stepped forward and extended his hand. "Thank you so much Father Kalashnikov, you've been very helpful."

Kalashnikov reached forward and gave Mulder's hand a firm squeeze. "Oh, I do my best. Please understand that I'm sincerely sorry I couldn't have been more helpful, but I have to balance the needs of my parish with those of the authorities."

"Render unto Caesar what is Caesar's," began Scully as she extended her hand.

"And unto God what is God's," replied Kalashnikov, smiling broadly as he did so. "Good luck agents, and please don't hesitate to call with any more questions."

Evidentially hearing the bells and anticipating what was to come (if indeed she'd ever forgotten), the wizened old Mrs. Dushanka entered the office with her little wheeled cart. Slightly hunched over, scarf over her head and prayer rope dangling from her wrist, the old woman shuffled across the room, stopping only to acknowledge Mulder and Scully with a brief nod and a "Zdravstvuite." Carefully steering around the agents she made a beeline for the desk and immediately set to tidying up the cups, napkins and other accoutrements of the mid-day coffee break. In the meantime Father Kalashnikov, seemingly satisfied that his guests were taken care of and mentally preparing himself for the service that was to come, headed towards the door which lead to the vestry and his dressing room.

So many memories came flooding back to Scully as she and Mulder walked towards the exit. The smell of the incense, the church bells, the red carpet. Even the way in which Mrs. Dushanka carefully and dutifully tidied up after her parish priest was familiar to her. And yet she was troubled. Despite the priest's friendly demeanor, Scully couldn't help but feel as if he had been a little evasive. Somehow, not everything felt quite, well, right. She was reaching for the doorknob and was in the process of turning the handle which lead to the foyer when her thoughts were sharply interrupted by her partner's voice.

"Oh, just one more thing Father Kalashnikov," began Mulder, his voice friendly but curious. "Can you tell me what 'Kas'ian Nemilostivyi' means? I know I'm probably butchering the pronunciation but... "

The effect on the room was startling. Kalashnikov paused in mid-stride and slowly turned to face the two agents. His expression was terse. "Where did you hear that?" he asked, his voice hard and serious.

"Oh, it just came up during our interviews," replied Mulder, trying to sound non-committal. "I've been trying to translate it but I'm not having any luck. It's not showing up in any dictionary and besides, my knowledge of the Cyrillic alphabet is kind of minimal." He attempted a smile but it elicited no response from the priest.

A heavy silence filled the room. Scully was startled but said nothing. Mulder had evidentially declined to share this little tidbit of information with her earlier in the investigation. She made a mental note to chastise him for it later. Whatever it was, Mulder had certainly stumbled across something big. When the priest spoke again, his voice was curt and his expression stony.

"It means 'Cassian the Unmerciful.' I'd ask exactly in what capacity you came across that name, Agent Mulder, but I'm afraid I really must go." And with that the priest left the room, his pace brisk and his manner determined. Scully looked up at Mulder, her eyebrows arched and her expression one of confusion.

"Mulder, what was-"she began, but the look on Mulder's face cut her off in mid-sentence.

"I'll tell you in the car," he replied quietly as he stepped towards the door and out into the foyer. In the background, unnoticed by all people concerned, Mrs. Dushanka had begun to fumble for her prayer rope and, finding it, began the slow, methodical process to running the knots through her skeletal fingers, each knot eliciting a quiet but fearful prayer.


	6. Chapter 6

Thanks for all the feedback guys, I really appreciate it. Keep it coming as things are about to get a whole lot more intense as the story reaches its climax soon! Thanks! J

11:54 a.m., Sat. March 18th, 1996

The heavy door of the blue Taurus had barely shut with a heavy clacking sound when the questions began. In spite of all the waves of sound which were washing over him from the direction of his redheaded partner, Mulder refused to allow his conscious mind to dip into them. God, why did the woman always have to assume that he was up to something or that he had purposefully hidden a key fact from her? He hardly understood the meaning of what had just happened himself and yet Scully was already on his case about not leveling with her, not trusting her, the works. After three years of working with her he already knew the litany by heart and contented himself with merely muttering in the affirmative while he balanced trying to organize his thoughts regarding the case on the one hand and directions out of the neighborhood on the other. Both were proving to be fairly elusive. In the distance, a few blocks up, the black and red sign of a Texaco station cut through the gray sky. He wasn't sure if they needed gas or not (a quick glance to the gas gauge on the dashboard con firmed that the tanks was a little over half full), but he decided that now was a good a time as any to sort things out.

The gas station was mostly deserted when they pulled into the refueling lot. As the hard metallic sound of the car's undercarriage scraping up against a particularly steep entry-way added to the list of frustrations, he suddenly became aware that Scully had stopped talking. Instead, she seemed to be scrutinizing the cavity of her briefcase in search of some misplaced object. At the sound of the Taurus getting its belly scratched by an obliging concrete projection, she winced and looked up.

"What are we doing Mulder?" came the inevitable question. Her voice seemed calm and resigned. That was a good sign. Perhaps he had weathered the storm.

"Oh, I dunno," he replied, a crooked grim crawling up the side of his face. "I just decided I had a hankering for a Twinkie, coffee and some gas. What about yourself?"

"Mulder," she began, her voice that of a slightly exasperated nanny. "Are you telling me that you want MORE coffee after that ordeal?"

He shrugged. "Talk about being a glutton for punishment, huh?" Scully smiled, tried to force the corner of her lips back down, failed, and then attempted to convert the humor into a serious-looking stare as she continued to fish around in her briefcase. Mulder slowly guided the car into an empty space near the mini-mart and shut off the engine. Scully's eyebrows arched.

"Mulder, the pumps are back over that way." He nodded. "Ok, so we're not going to get gas?"

Mulder's voice assumed a slightly defensive tone. "Well Ms. Scully, I thought you were the one who wanted to know what was going on back there at the rectory. But of course if you're willing to just let me handle the details of the case while you take care of the important stuff like fueling the car, that's fine by me."

"If that will get us back to D.C. any sooner I'm game, but somehow I doubt it."

"Hardy-har-har, Scully."

"Mulder, give me a break. I didn't sleep well last night and for my body it's the middle of the weekend so if we could cut to the chase..." Scully's voice was irritated but her expression not overly so. Relaxing, Mulder rolled down his window and sat back in his seat. "Ok, Mulder, so...do you want to clue me in on what's going on?" Cracking his knuckles, Mulder launched into his story.

Under the circumstances it didn't take anywhere as long as Scully thought it might. Although she was very much aware of her partner's own foibles and faults, she could never quite shake the fact that somehow he always knew more about a case than she did. Whether it was his intuition, his comfort with the bizarre, or quite frankly, his tenacity, she couldn't be sure. Not for the first time she mused on the appropriateness of his nickname: "Spooky."

The tale began with Mulder's discovery of the case as it crossed the wire a week or two earlier. While it occupied only a very small bit of space on the newssheets (indeed, the Cleveland Plain Dealer had a two-inch article on the first death buried on page 18 and the Akron Beacon-Journal had ignored the story completely), he had been immediately intrigued. While the article had said that the cause of death was almost certainly accidental and natural (after all, people had been known to freeze to death in the wintertime), Mulder had been intrigued by the fact that it should happen indoors on a balmy 40-degree Fahrenheit night. A few quiet investigations on his part into the matter consisting of half a dozen phone calls to local journalists and police press agents had turned up precious few details but had whet his appetite. While it had greatly interested him, he had also realized that it would be hard to clear travel costs and reasonably expect to get approval to pursue such a case without much to go on or an official request from the CPD. However, all that had changed when news of the second murder had crossed the wire early on the morning of the 17th.

"Wait," interjected Scully, raising her hand in protest. "You're telling me that until this morning all you had to go on was a hunch and two inches of newsprint?"

"Not to mention all my in-depth investigatory work and phone calls to journalists familiar with the first case."

"You mean that you were willing to disrupt my weekend plans and expect me to drop everything on a HUNCH?"

Mulder offered a timid, sickly sweet smile. "Aw, c'mon Scully, you can't tell me this hasn't gotten you intrigued, right?"

Scully felt a small wave of resentment rise in her and then let it cool. He was right, after all. The case certainly was peculiar. Not worth sacrificing her weekend for, but certainly peculiar. Besides, it wasn't like this was the first time he had pulled something like this. "Point taken Mulder. Drive on." With that, Mulder resumed his story.

Before leaving for Cleveland Friday morning, Mulder had called Detective Preston of the CPD. He was in charge of the case and long years of experience had taught Mulder that despite the fact that he was a federal agent, there was very little he would be able to accomplish if the local police officers decided to drag their feet. By locking out the feds, the CPD could very well have shut down his investigation if they had wanted to do so. Instead, Preston seemed relieved to have a second set of eyes and ears devoted to the case, although Mulder doubted that an old salt like Preston would ever admit to being baffled about anything.

After giving Scully the background of the case, he detailed to her what had transpired between him and the old denizen of the apartment building who had tried to crush his foot in the door. Relating the bizarre exchange, he then told her how he had followed up in all the other apartments and obtained virtually nothing that night.

"And..." he sighed, digging in his jacket pockets for a stick of gum or something to munch on, "...you know the rest."

A long silence followed during which Scully seemed to be lost in thought. At length she spoke.

"Ok, Mulder: Cassian the Unmerciful. What does it mean? Any thoughts?" Bracing herself for the ubiquitous crack-brained conspiracy theory that was sure to follow, Scully waited. The answer surprised her.

"To be honest, Scully, I'm not sure what I think. I have no clue who or what this guy Cassian is, that's actually what I was going to ask the machine-gun cleric back there. Unfortunately that doesn't exactly seem to be something he's super enthusiastic to discuss."

"I second that motion, Mulder. However," she continued, fiddling with a pen as she twirled it around in her hands, "that's not a whole hell of a lot to go on. Maybe Cassian is some kind of local gangster or tough guy in the Russian community. That would explain why no one wants to talk about what's going on."

"But it wouldn't explain how two guys, seemingly unrelated to each other except for their ethnicity, could be found murdered in their homes, frozen solid when the weather outside never dropped below freezing and the heating was working in the building."

"Wait," replied Scully, looking up from her pen, "who said they were murdered?"

Mulder chuckled. "C'mon Scully. Don't tell me that you actually think that there might be some sort of natural explanation for all this."

"And you suspect what exactly, Mulder? That this is the work of...an evil practitioner of nature magic or a neo-Satanist or some kind of..." Her voice trailed off at the sight of Mulder's gleaning eyes. "Good lord, don't tell me you're being serious Mulder. Because if I came all the way out here to Cleveland in order to find out how the modern day Harry Houdini manages to freeze his neighbors to death one at a time..."

"Geeze Scully, I never said anything about Satanists or Harry Houdini. Besides, hell is supposed to involve lakes of fire and boiling lead, not snow and ice."

"Unless of course you've read Dante's Inferno." At that Mulder's ears perked up.

"Hey now. I'd forgotten about good old Dante. Maybe it really is a neo-Satanist thing, although at this point I'm more inclined to believe that this may be the work of some practitioner of shamanism or Native American mysticism. After all, such religions while often termed "primitive" by closed-minded people are often closely tied in with natural forces and the weather. I mean, if it is maintained by many different belief systems that people with power over the natural world can summon rains or institute dry spells, why couldn't someone also have control over other aspects of the weather, like snow or ice?"

"Mulder, I'm sorry to burst your bubble," began Scully although to Mulder she didn't sound grieved in the slightest, "but not only is that scientifically implausible, the fact of the matter is that just because we live in an age of cultural pluralism and a respect for all belief systems doesn't mean that just because a religion says something can happen doesn't mean that it in fact can and will.

Mulder felt the urge to respond but bit his tongue. He knew the response that would have risen out of him would be inappropriate. For although Scully made it clear that her faith took a second row to her scientific skepticism, putting down Catholicism on the basis of transubstantiation or equating it with tribal superstition would be cruel and unnecessary. Perhaps guessing at what he was thinking, Scully quickly tried a different tack.

'Besides, Mulder, what on earth does Shamanism or Native American tribal beliefs have to do with Russia? I mean, we shouldn't overlook that fact either."

"I dunno Scully. Remember, Russia isn't exactly home to some of the most hospitable and mild climates in the world, as is demonstrated by their thick forests, tundra and presence on the polar circle. Also it's a little-known fact that until 1867 Alaska was a Russian colony, complete with administrators, villages, and their own churches and saints."

"All right," responded Scully, thoughtfully, sweeping a lock of auburn hair back behind her ear. "So you suspect that this may have something to do with magic or native religion or whatever. Fine. The question here is, how do we go about actually solving this thing? I somehow doubt we can come right out and share our interesting little theory with Detective Preston."

"Well, with only two deaths that we know of at our disposal, we're somewhat limited in our scope. In a way that's good as it gives us a more specific frame of reference to focus on."

"And you suspect...?"

At this Mulder popped the lock of the car door and unbuckled his seatbelt.

"One way or another Scully, there has to be some connection between these two dead men, Piotyr and Lev. So far we haven't heard of any link between these two, but that doesn't mean that there isn't one. Somehow, I find it extremely unlikely that whoever is responsible for these deaths just randomly picked those two men and killed them for the heck of it. There has to be some kind of connection between them and the killer which in turn links them to each other. The trick is just finding out what it is and who it's focused on."

"Where are you going Mulder?" asked Scully as he unbuckled his seatbelt.

"I, Agent Scully, am going to get some lunch at the Quick-Mart over there," he responded, vaguely gesticulating at the Subway Express which shared its premises with the Texaco station. "It's getting late and I haven't had lunch. You feel like joining me?"

A moment later the passenger side door of the Taurus slammed shut and a second set of footsteps joined with Mulder's as they headed in the direction of the garish neon light advertising great sandwiches a few feet away.

-- -- -- -- --

5:27 p.m.

Oleg's hands hurt. Specifically the right hand. As he stood over his sink letting the chilly, soothing ribbon of cold water cascade over his bruised and swollen knuckles he kicked himself for the sixth time that evening for once again underestimating the tenacity of some of the neighborhood old folks. By God that old man had put up a fight.

Reaching up and twisting the rounded faucet knob off, he groped for the hand towel he always kept by the side of the sink. Inadvertently bumping his slightly less bruised left hand against the towel rack, he let out a muted bellow of pain and threw the towel on the floor, taking out his frustration on the scrap of cloth. Biting his chapped, thin lips, Oleg opened the door and stepped out of the bathroom and into the living room of the only somewhat less dingy apartment he called his home.

Much like his physical appearance, Oleg's apartment was the quintessence of the contradiction which characterized his life. The apartment was seedy and messy, but he was a well-off man. Sure, he could never hold onto cash for very long, but fortunately for him working for Sasha Khostov was always a profitable endeavor. Had he put his mind to it he probably could have amassed a good deal of money. Likewise, although Oleg was not a physically imposing man with his bad teeth and slight build (at least once every single one of his acquaintances had thought of him as something of a weasel or ferret at some time or other), he was not a man to be trifled with. What he lacked in physicality he more than made up for in sheer violence and brutishness. If a skinny man crossed him, Oleg used his fists. If an ordinary man crossed him, he used a bat. If a big man crossed him, he used a gun. Such a violent predisposition had of course attracted the attention of his boss Sasha who was loath to allow such a promising young protégé go to waste. And so in the past five years Oleg, who had for much of his adult life never amounted to anything, found himself on the up and up. And yet, somehow, he just never really quite "got it" when it came to thinking ahead.

This had been aptly demonstrated a scant few hours earlier in a little rat hole of a shop on the corner of Walker Avenue and 31st Street. The owner of said shop had been tardy in his weekly payment to the Khostov Fire Insurance Corporation (as it was known locally) once too often and Oleg had been sent out to rectify the situation. While it would have been easy to simply burn down the shop, Sasha had decided to be merciful and let the old proprietor off with an old-fashioned Russian beating instead of burning his livelihood to the ground. Oleg, always eager to oblige but sometimes a little unrestrained in his enthusiasm had in his excitement forgotten that the old man had been a colonel in the Soviet special forces in Afghanistan back in the 80's. That had turned into a nasty surprise, but at least Oleg was nothing if not tenacious. Having exchanged bruised knuckles and a black eye for a broken arm and half a dozen missing teeth, Oleg felt accomplished, if a little angry at himself.

Walking into the little kitchenette which served as nothing more than a storage facility for when his girlfriend Gabriella would come over and cook, Oleg opened the fridge and pulled out two beers. Checking his watch, he noted that it was a quarter of six. Perfect. He had arranged for a few friends of his who had in the past been business associated over for some drinks. He had also scored an angle on a dozen hot pistols off of a Mexican on the south side and was looking for potential buyers. The fact that they could sit around and eat pizza while alternately watching a game on the tube and discussing the finer points of swinging a lead pipe was as natural to Oleg as his fondness for gambling.

Plopping himself down in his easy chair, he popped the cap off of his brewski and clicked on the television. The winter sun had long set and as the sky faded to black, so grew the shadows cast in the room by the TV set. Oleg enjoyed watching TV in the dark and as such thought nothing of getting up to turn on some lights. If Gabri had been there she no doubt would have been on his case already about cleaning up his mess and taking better care of the place, but she wasn't and he didn't really care, even when she was around.

Oleg had finished off the first Molsen and was getting ready to start on the second one when the doorknob at the end of the corridor rattled.

"It's open," he shouted, checking his watch as he did so. It was 6:05 p.m. Damn. It looked like those lowlifes he called his friends might actually come close to being on time for once. When no response was forthcoming, Oleg decided to try again.

"I said it's OPEN," he echoed, raising his voice a few decibels, cutting through the cheers of the fans on the tube as the Lumberjacks slammed home a second goal to tie the game at 2-2.

For a few moments, Oleg was mired in uncertainty. Had he in fact heard the noise at all? It seemed like he had, but then again it might just have been the noise from the television set. The chair was comfortable and the beer was cold. Why should he bother to get up? Let those lazy bastards open the door themselves if they wanted to come in so bad (if indeed, they were there at all). It wasn't that hard.

With the roar of a 200-horsepower Ford truck engine and blaring guitars as a prologue, the TV cut to commercial. Popping his neck, Oleg set the bottle down by the side of the chair. As he did so, he could have sworn that intermingled with the sound of his neck popping like a chestnut in the flames, another sound had emanated from the doorway, as if someone was trying to turn the knob but found the door locked. Oleg thought about yelling his invitation again, but thought the better of it. If those good-for-nothings couldn't bother to knock or call him in advance, they were too stupid to deserve his friendship. However, the beers had taken their toll on Oleg and he had to use the bathroom. Sighing at the unfairness of his life, Oleg summoned all his will and raised himself out of his sagging, terminally comfortable La-Z-Boy and shuffled across the dark living room towards the bathroom door.

As he made his way into the corridor, Oleg was struck by how chilly his formerly cozy apartment now seemed. Of course, that could just be a side effect of two ice-cold beers on his system, but somehow, he didn't think so. Reaching towards the light switch in the corridor he clicked it on and immediately the corridor was filled with a dim, soft yellow light. Looking up, the first thing Oleg noticed was that the door was in fact locked. Clearly if someone had been at the door after all they wouldn't have been able to get in on their own. _Unless of course they had their own set of keys _Oleg chuckled to himself. Just the same, with all the crap going on around him, it was better safe than sorry. Passing down the long corridor, Oleg reached the door and slid the deadbolt shut after a quick glance through the peephole assuaged him that, yes indeed, the outside hallway was deserted. Fully satisfied that his door was now completely locked, he padded barefooted into the bathroom, wincing as his skin brushed against the icy cold tiles. Was it really all that cold in his apartment? Making a mental note to himself to check the thermostat as soon as he was done (and the next commercial break was on), Oleg snapped on the bathroom lights and closed the bathroom door, shutting it on the most peculiar scene which had now laid itself out in his living room. For while the TV still merrily extolled the values of MCI over ATT and the lights flickered over the brown easy chair, ice crystals had begun to form in the bottom of the Molsen bottle. And in the inky recesses of the den, all but obscured in a long black cloak and the shadows of the room, a gaunt figure waited.


	7. Chapter 7

Whoa! Long time no update. Sorry folks, exams kinda happened and everything and I never got much time to write until Christmas break. Leave feedback please! I promise more will be coming soon!

Second Precinct, Cleveland Police Dept.

6:33 p.m.

If at first Mulder and Scully had held any doubts that Detective Preston was through and through an old-school detective, they were dispelled immediately upon entering his office. To Mulder it seemed like something out of a Richard Stark crime novel. To Scully, it was a panel from a Calvin and Hobbes' cartoon; the one in which Calvin was the hard-boiled detective Tracer Bullett.

The office was a fairly small one, but it was difficult to tell if that was because the dimensions of the room were diminutive or if the mountains of papers, cabinets, empty coffee cups and paperclips only made it seem smaller than it really was. In the back center of the room sat Detective Preston's desk and chair, and in it Detective Preston, his feet up on the desktop, his hands clasped behind his head, a toothpick lodged in the corner of his mouth. He appeared to be lost in a daydream for his eyes hung loosely in their sockets and has assumed the glassy, watery appearance of one who had either spent far too much time at a desk or just consumed a copious amount of alcohol.

The door was mostly open and they could have walked straight in, but Mulder made sure to give a quick rap on the glass panel of the door in order to give the detective enough time to assume a more professional demeanor. Instead, his head slowly swiveled towards the two agents and, grunting, he swung his feet off of the desk and down onto the floor.

"Hey there agents," he began, straightening and shuffling the papers which littered his desk. "I didn't expect you'd be here so soon."

"Yeah, us feds are like that," said Mulder, a mischievous glint in his eye. "Do mind if we come in?"

"No, not at all," Preston replied. "Come on in. Just accept my apologies if I seem a little out of it. Unlike federal agents, us mere mortal police officers need a break from time to time."

"We'll make this as quick as we can Detective Preston, but we do have a case to solve so we'd appreciate any help you could give us." Scully crossed her arms as she spoke, fixing the detective with a steely gaze.

"Fine, fine, be my guest," came thee stock reply, but under those seemingly unconcerned words Scully thought she could detect a hint of something darker. While there was certainly nothing new in police-FBI rivalry (Scully herself had borne the brunt of those confrontations more often than she cared to remember), it was hard to get a read to Detective Preston. While on the surface he seemed to exhibit signs of being a gruff, no-nonsense police officer, somehow she sensed something was not sitting well with Preston. Not that he would ever allow himself (or anyone else) to comment on it. Just the same, Scully felt uneasy.

Mulder sat down in the office's only chair, leaving Scully to stand to the side. That was fine with her. The less "female weakness" she exhibited in front of Preston the better, she thought. It would be just like Preston to assume the worst if he caught any trace of her trolling for special favors due to the fact that she was a woman. She had been there often enough and nipped that right in the bud.

Preston's gray-green eyes hovered over the pair before settling on Mulder. Reaching down into his desk drawer, he pulled out a hefty file from the dark recesses of his own filing system and allowed it to flop out of his hand and onto the desk with a satisfying plopping sounds.

"So, agents," he began again, this time with a voice which suggested a far more businesslike demeanor. "Where do you want to start?"

"Well, call me old fashioned but I've always been partial to starting at the beginning." A smile cracked Mulder's face, but it evidentially made little impact of Preston.

"Suit yourself," muttered Preston to himself, eyes glued on the desk. "Ok. So here we go." Leaning back, Preston let out a long sigh which was echoed by the preparatory squeaking of his chair as he leaned back. And with that, he launched into his summary.

"At about 1:00 p.m. yesterday you two left the apartment of Piotyr Yumashev at 1223 Pushkin street. While the techs worked on thawing out the body from the floor and transporting it to the local coroner's office, I headed back here to the office to brainstorm some with Steve, to see if we couldn't get to the bottom of this. Seeing how this was the second victim of this type we'd had and all."

"Steve?" interjected Mulder, pausing momentarily in his scribbling as he looked up from his notepad.

"Steve- well, Stefan actually," replied Preston, scratching his head. "Everyone calls him Steve. Detective Stefan Rybakov is one of the more capable officers we have here in the second precinct. Sharp as a tack and what's more, he speaks Russian so that makes our lives that much easier."

"Is he working on this case as well?" pondered Scully aloud. Preston shook his head.

"Nope. Poor Steve's up to his neck in other stuff right now. We had a big bust a couple of weeks back and he was the lead detective on that, so now that the grand jury has been convened he's spending pretty much his entire life over at the courthouse and DA's office, getting his paperwork filed and his testimony straight." Preston's voice trailed off again and once more he appeared to be contemplating the back of the office wall, evidentially admiring spire-web of cracks which had begun to creep up through the plaster, or merely lost in his own train of thought. Mulder waited several seconds to assure himself that Preston was well and gone before reeling him back in.

"So…you got with Detective Rybakov and had a little chat. Did you make any progress?" Preston let out a slight grunt and yanked his eyes off the wall and back to Mulder.

"Yeah. Anyway, as I was saying, we got together and tried to see if we couldn't figure out what the link between our two victims was. You'll remember that Piotyr Yumashev was the second victim found frozen to death in his apartment. The first was a man by the name of Lev Sobiowski who we found at the end of February. Both of these guys had a arrest and criminal records, but nothing serious. Sobiowski had been arrested half a dozen times in connection with various pretty crimes. He was never formally charged with anything and as such while the Cleveland anti-gang taskforce is fairly certain that he was involved in many more crimes than those he was arrested for, there's no evidence to prove anything."

"What about the man you found yesterday. Yumashev?" Preston glanced at Scully with an impatient 'I was just getting there, hold your horses' look.

"Good ol' Piotyr was a little more promising, but again nothing in the long run. Unlike Lev Piotyr was actually charged in connection with an assault which took place outside a Russian delicatessen about a year ago. He beat the owner to a pulp and the poor guy refused to even press charges on his own. Luckily a patrolman rolled up on the scene as it was happening and caught Piotyr red-handed."

"Anything ever come of that?" Mulder asked, thumbing his pen.

"Nope. Yumashev got 3 month's probation and managed to stay clean long enough for that to run out. He's managed to avoid getting rearrested ever since then, though that's not to say that he hasn't been involved in anything else."

"Sounds like a dead end." Scully tried to mask the frustration in her voice, but wasn't sure how successful she was.

It was…until we dug a little deeper." There was no mistaking the pride in Preston's expression. "With just Lev Sobiowski, we didn't have that much to go on. After all, a single dead body is just a dead body, no matter how bizarre or unusual the causes of death. But when Piotyr Yumashev turned up dead the same way, at least we had a connection. We checked out their employment records."

"Any hits?" Mulder's eyes sparkled as he said this. Preston actually smiled.

"Yeah, Agent Mulder. You could say that. For a period of six months back in 1994, both Lev and Piotyr worked for an outfit called _Trans-Rus Shipping, Inc_. While that in itself is not particularly unusual, it turns out that this Shipping company doesn't actually exist. It's just a front organization, run by and for the Russian mob."

"For what purpose?" Scully's question was perhaps a bit obvious, but having precious little experience in the field of mob law-enforcement, she felt a little out of the loop.

"Money-laundering, Agent Scully," replied Preston, obviously happy to have a chance to play mentor to what he no doubt thought were the overeager, inexperienced g-men. "Hell, I'd be just about anything under the sun runs out of that place. Cars, jewelry, cigarettes, fur coats, extortion, racketeer, illegal boxing, you name it. Hell, that would explain why Yumashev beat the crap out of that Deli owner. The guy was probably getting late on his payments and needed to be reminded who was in charge." Preston reached down and pulled his wastebasket up to where he was sitting and, completely devoid of decorum, spat out his soggy, bent toothpick. Replacing the trash can on the floor, he reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a fresh one.

"So," started Scully, trying desperately to avoid sounding disgusted at the sight of Preston's culinary habits, "Lev and Piotyr are tied to the Russian mob, this fake shipping company. And for whatever reason, this involvement has gotten the both of them killed?"

"Exactly." Both men spoke in unison, and then chuckled as they started in surprise.

"That still doesn't explain how the bodies ended up frozen, or any of the scientific oddity surrounding the…deaths," she continued, trying desperately to fall into the trap of calling them murders and thus validating Mulder's theories. A brief silence followed. At length Mulder broke it.

"It doesn't really matter. One way or another, we've made progress on this. If we can figure out why these two men were killed, that will lead us to whom, and no doubt, finally, to how. All we need to do is connect the dots."

"Well put," added Preston, nodding his head in agreement. "Toothpick?" he asked as he extended his little case towards Mulder. Scully was thankful to see Mulder decline. Just the same, Scully had to admit she was shocked. It wasn't like Mulder to suddenly let everything drop. After all, wasn't he the believer? Wasn't he the one who was always dragging them around the country on some harebrained scheme to reveal the mysteries of the universe or prove the existence of the paranormal? Why on earth would he drag her all the way out here in order to investigate something which he himself seemed to have lost interest in? Unless of course…

It was always possible that he was merely putting on a show for the good detective. Scully had to admit that no matter how annoying and rankling she found people of Preston's ilk, the man had done some good, solid work. He had managed to uncover the connection between the two victims. One of the potential connections, she corrected herself. There was still plenty of work to be done on this case. Part of her wanted to be done with this case as soon as possible and be on her way back to Washington as soon as possible. On the other hand, part of her was also genuinely intrigued. What had happened to the two men in their apartments? While Mulder no doubt preferred to see it as a case of witchcraft or shamanism or powers of the occult, she herself quickly dismissed such allegations as ludicrous. However, somewhere deep inside of her a scientific flame had been sparked. What could possibly have caused the two men to fall victim to such strange occurrences? One way or another, she had to admit that she was intrigued. Perhaps this trip out to Ohio would be worthwhile after all.

Suddenly, Scully's mind was jarred out of her scull with the force of an oncoming cement mixer. In the distance she pinpointed the source and surged back to the present tense. The sound in question was that of Detective Mark Preston's telephone ringing. Reaching forward, Preston yanked it off its receiver and in one nimble move placed it between his neck and ear as he simultaneously reached for a pen and pencil. Part of Scully paused to wonder how much practice it had taken Preston to get that move down straight like that. The rest of her focused on the task at hand: listening to half of the Preston-unknown phone conversation.

"You're kidding me. Really?" Preston's words came fast and furious, his pen scribbling quickly over the piece of loose-leaf he had scooped up off of his desk. "Ok. Ok. Got that. Ten minutes ago you say. Uh-huh. Ok. Be right there."

Leaning forward, Preston replaced the telephone in its cradle with a deafening clang and flung his fresh toothpick into the wastebasket. After taking a moment to let the words of the unknown caller sink in, he slowly turned to the two agents.

"Well folks, I don't know how else to say it, so I'll just say it. Grab your stuff and get ready to roll. There's just been another murder."

To be continued…


	8. Chapter 8

Hey, hey, hey folks, we're back. Stay tuned, because the story is rapidly drawing to its climax! All will soon be revealed. More to come soon!

8:22 P.M. Saturday, March 18th

The very first time Scully had ever been to a real crime scene, she had been hard-pressed to hide her disappointment. While years of T.V. shows and movies had taught her to expect glamorous, hard-boiled detectives, grisly homicides and gritty locales, the crime scene she had the good fortune of drawing her first week out of the academy was laughably bland: a deserted mailbox out of which someone had posted a threatening letter to the Hoover Building in Washington. And while few crime scenes since then had proved to be more boring than that faded, dented blue box on 38th avenue, few had proven to be quite as turbulent (and, frankly, exciting) as this one.

Looking around her, Scully felt like a movie star. Flashbulbs popped and cameras clicked all around her, illuminating the scene in a staccato of weird, stroke-light like flashes. The room was filled with the gentle hum of activity and low, murmured voices as the police officers and techs worked the area, laying out fingerprint powder and unrolling strands of yellow police tape. In the back corner of the main living room and elderly black man in coveralls and a faded Cleveland Browns cap sat on the windowsill, shaking his head and wringing his hands as a patrolman who looked to be no more than 25 jotted down scribbles in an open notebook and nodded ever so often, as if to encourage the witness (for he could be only that) to continue.

"What a fricken' mess, eh?" said Detective Preston, addressing the question to no one in particular. Ducking under the yellow tape which blocked off the corridor from the scene of the crime, he strode self-importantly into the room, plowing a path through the various people working the scene like a ship carving a path through a heavy surf.

Scully let out an audible sigh and reached into her blazer pocket, pulling out a pair of white latex gloves as she did so. Mulder did the same and, flashing her the briefest hint of a "go get 'em" smile, ducked under the tape and followed in the path marked out by Preston.

Within moments someone in charge (or rather, the person who had been in charge up to that point) was evidentially alerted to Preston's arrival for a well-dressed blonde man stepped out of the press and walked towards Preston, giving him a brief nod. A short conference ensued and both men made for the back of the living room, a small army of technicians in tow.

"Well, I'm glad to see that this situation is now officially under control," muttered Mulder under his breath as he slipped on his second glove with a satisfying snap.

"Beg pardon?" was Scully's reply.

"Oh, I was just commenting on the fact that I am so grateful that despite the incredible lack of organization manifested on the outside, the local police department seems to be only slightly less clueless than they appear." Scully's eyebrows perked up.

"Mulder," she began, hoping desperately that she did not sound half as cranky as she felt, "whatever happened to the good old 'mmm…this doesn't really matter, one way or another everything will turn out ok' Mulder from Preston's office?"

"Yeah, well, don't trust everything your ears tell you Scully. Just because I never lie to you doesn't mean that I always tell the truth to everyone else." His eyes twinkled.

"You never lie to me?" Her words truly were incredulous.

"No." His façade lasted for all of about two seconds before cracking wide open. "I'll let you ponder that one Scully while I try to make sense of all this mess."

Reaching into her blazer pocket once more, Scully pulled out a pen.

"Well, Mulder, if it's ok with you I'd just as soon work on this case a little more. That way I at least will be satisfied that _someone_ cares enough about solving the mystery of what exactly is happening to these men."

"I couldn't agree more."

"All right then, Mulder, where do we start on all this?" Looking up, Scully noticed Preston and his gang beginning to separate, the obviously less important techs returning to whatever tasks Preston had assigned to them. In the center, Preston, toothpick firmly clasped between his teeth, continued to relay orders to his rapidly dwindling team of assistants like a general on campaign. In the corner, the youngish police officer had flipped shut his notebook and had stopped nodding, but as yet still seemed intent on hearing what the old black man had to say.

"Hey Scully, five bucks says that the old guy is our only 'witness' in this whole sordid affair." At the word "witness" Mulder arched his fingers to indicate his obvious lack of enthusiasm in what was going on.

"Well, Mulder, you've got to work with what you have. What were you expecting? The boogeyman in handcuffs?"

"No, but on the other hand I don't think he'll be adding much to the case either. Probably heard some muffled screaming or fighting, took a chance, came in the apartment, and _voila_. One more _tovarish_ on ice." As if to confirm Mulder's suspicions, on cue two beefy, lab-coated men lifted up a metal stretcher and extended its rollers with a hollow metallic clicking sound. On the stretcher was what could only be the body under a white plastic sheet, although the odd lumps and projections seemed to suggest that the deceased was doing anything but resting peacefully.

As the Stretcher neared the door, Scully lifted up the yellow tape and allowed the techs to pass undisturbed.

"Thanks," said one of the techs as he walked past, pushing the stretcher, the light in his eyes reflecting his gratitude.

"How'd you guys get him off the floor?" came Mulder's question as an afterthought. "I was thinking he was frozen solid."

"Carpet," replied the tech by way of explanation. "Peeled the sucker right off." For a brief instant a brief "a-ha" flashed across Mulder's face and was gone as quickly as it had come. Scully released the tape, but Mulder held back. At this Scully looked puzzled.

"Hey Mulder, you coming or what?" Before Mulder could formulate a reply, his eyes caught a large figure in a long tan raincoat surging out of the crowd. Biting his tongue, he realized that he had forgotten about Preston.

"Hey, Agents," came the by now all too familiar voice. "You guys can stay up as late as you want, but I don't have all night. So, if it's ok with you-" he gave a slight faux bow to the two agents, "- let's get started."

Mulder felt a tide of resentment rising up in him, but pinched it before it could engulf him. Anger accomplished nothing and was all together useless: it dulled the mind, numbed the senses, and ruined him as an investigator. What he needed now was a cool, clean head and an escape pod.

"Victim's name is Oleg Adam-" before he could get another two words out, Mulder made an impatient chopping gesture with his hand.

"You know what," he began, keeping his voice low and even. "I think I'm going to take a rain check on that, Detective Preston."

In the shocked silence that followed, the world seemed to stop. It was impossible that everyone in the room had heard the two, neither man had raised his voice but it was as if something…intangible…had shifted in the atmosphere above them. Almost instantly all sounds in the room hushed and even the anonymous crime scene inspectors stopped brushing for prints, as if afraid that the soft, silent bending of the whiskers of their brushes would disturb the conversation. They were all ears.

Preston's eyes seemed to twitch in their sockets for an instant, before instantly deflating and assuming the menacing, watery glaze of the truly hardened investigator.

"What was that, Agent Mulder?" Scully felt as if the entire room around them cringed.

"I said," repeated Mulder, tired yet firm, "that I think I will take a rain check on the grand tour of this scene."

"Oh." Preston's jaw tightened and the toothpick stood ramrod straight. "And just why is that, _Agent_ Mulder? I thought you G-men were interested in solving this little case of ours. I mean," he raised his hand in a gesture of false helplessness, "I thought you wanted to help us poor little local cops fix this situation, isn't that right?" Scully could almost see the venom flying in Preston's words as he hurled them at Mulder. She felt hot blood rise to her face and ears. This was not embarrassment, no. She had tolerated Preston, tolerated his condescending remarks, his macho posturing, his barely concealed misogyny long enough. And if he thought that she or her partner were just going to sit back and take it like good little federal government employees, he had another thing coming. Feeling her own anger rise, she swallowed hard and prepared to launch a broadside of her own at Preston, but before she could, Mulder responded.

"Detective Preston," he began, outwardly calm but no doubt boiling on the inside. "Let's get a few things straight here. You called _us_ in to help. Here we are. Now this is the third murder of this type you have had and so far I'm afraid that I haven't heard a single theory, let alone an intelligent one, come out of your entire office. You managed to link the two victims. Great. And now you're going to poke around here, interview the sole witness, and ultimately conclude the same thing: that this guy, whatever his name is, is dead. That he died by freezing, just like the other victims, and that there is no rational, plausible explanation. Furthermore, you are going to tell me, no doubt after a day or two of half-hearted searching on your part that this guy is _also_ involved with Trans-Rus Shipping, Inc. I'm sorry, but that gets us exactly nowhere. Are you with me so far?"

The red-faced man swallowed and nodded. Glancing over at Preston, however, Scully wasn't so sure. As Mulder's tirade had continued, Preston had at first seemed incredulous, and then outright enraged. By now Preston seemed to have calmed himself a bit, but Scully had no doubts that this would lead to some serious repercussions further down the line. No senior investigator was going to take a public tongue lashing like that in front of his subordinates (from a fed, no less) and let it slide. No, Scully knew there would be consequences. But for the time being, Preston merely nodded.

"Now, I am going to leave you here to investigate the crime. Talk to the witnesses, and collect the exact same type of evidence that we have collected twice already. I, however, am going to pursue other avenues of approach into all of this. Good luck." And with that, Mulder lifted up his hands and began to peel off his gloves.

A heavy silence filled the room. If the apartment had felt quiet before, it was now as silent as a tomb. Even the normal ambient noise from the street seemed to have silenced itself on command.

In the corner of his mouth, Preston's toothpick began to twitch. His mouth stayed still and his face expressionless, but as far as Scully was concerned, Preston's eyes told her all she needed to know. They had to look of a predator, of a wounded animal. And she had no doubt whatsoever as to where most of the rage was focused. Seconds ticked by. Mulder finished taking off his gloves and slid them into his pocket.

"Knock yourself out." Preston's words shattered the silence and hug over the room like a cloud. And then, as simply as that, he turned and strode back into the living room, self-importantly as ever.

Little by little, the noise and hum of activity picked up, first as a low drone, and then slowly building up to its previous dull roar in the minutes that followed, although to Scully it seemed as if the sound had been permanently lowered a notch. No wonder, she thought to herself. The techs and all those assembled had just seen something extraordinary in the world of local police: a seasoned, hardened investigator told off.

Surprisingly enough, Mulder seemed none the worse for wear. Running his fingers through his hair, he sighed and then turned towards the door. Slipping off her own gloves, Scully did the same.

"Gee, Mulder," she began. "I don't know what to say."

"Then don't, he replied, sounding truly tired for the first time since their arrival in Cleveland.

"What are you going to do?" asked Scully, hoping desperately that she didn't sound too anxious. Instead of answering that particular question directly, Mulder got to the point.

"This is our game plan," he began with a voice that sounded decidedly unlike the Mulder she had known in times past: the self-effacing, slightly embarrassed Mulder who quietly admitted he believed in UFOs and that the fact was no one's business but his own. "I want you to go back to the motel room and get a good night's sleep. We've been working at this way too hard and to be honest, you look like you need it." Scully began to protest. After all, she looked no worse than he did, in her opinion, much better, but he cut her off with an impatient gesture.

"Don't worry, we're gonna be working our butts off yet. Tomorrow, I want you to go to the local FBI branch office. Call some people. Get in deep with their organized crime section. They're bound to have tons of files to any and all Russian mob activity in the great Lakes region. Find out everything you can about this Trans-Rus Shipping, Inc. Find out everything you can about the three victims: who they are, what they did, and who would want them dead. Once we get there, we will re-evaluate our position and see how to proceed."

Several conflicting thoughts flew through Scully's head. Under normal circumstances, she would bristle at the very idea of Mulder ordering her around. He was her partner, not her boss, and she had no problem reminding him of that, and had in the past. However, she also understood Mulder. He was tired, he was frustrated, and he had just expended a lot of emotional energy clearing away the obstacle known in the mundane world as Detective Mark Preston. In many ways she was grateful. For once she relished the prospect of sinking herself into some real hands-on police work and leaving aliens and monsters and magic by the wayside.

"What about you, Mulder?' she asked, her voice filled with concern. "You need your sleep too you know." Mulder smiled.

"I, Agent Scully, am going to join you at the motel shortly. In the meantime, I have one or two more leads to track down."

"Such as…?"

"Such as finding out who the hell Cassian the Unmerciful is and what he has to do with this case."

And with that the two agents departed the dilapidated, if comfortable, Bluehill Terrace apartments on 322 Joshua Brown Street, Northwestern Cleveland, unaware that, despite the chill of the night and the ever-present darkness on the seedier side of town, a pair of eyes was watching.


	9. Chapter 9

Hey guys, thanks so much for all the great feedback I've gotten. Hope you like the next chapter (I'm personally not sure how well it turned out, so please let me know, I promise I won't bite ;) )

St. Gregorios' Fields of Mercy

10:35 p.m., Saturday, March 18th.

Mulder stifled a yawn and wrenched the shift knob of the rental into park, killing the lights and engine as he did so. The heavy V6 engine on the Taurus grumbled for a moment before gurgling off, evidentially reluctant to call it a night quite yet. Within moments a heavy blanket of silence descended on the scene, quickly and yet calmly blinking into reality and ending the hustle and bustle that was the soundtrack of modern urban life once and for all. Mulder sat behind the wheel of his car, fingers loose on the cheap, rubbery plastic which seemed to be the lot of all rental vehicle interiors. His eyes slowly coasted over the scene, absorbing as much information as he could in as short a time as possible. Once he was satisfied that all was quiet, he slowly clicked open the metallic lever on his door and unbuckled his seatbelt with the same fluid motion which had come with practice at the academy. With that, he exited the car and quietly shut the door, not bothering to thumb the locks. It was late and there was no reason for him to do so.

Mulder felt a cold breeze pick up and catch on the end of his coat, its long tails flapping in the wind. Shivering in spite of himself, he buttoned the front of his loose garment and shoved his gloved hands into his pockets, taking comfort in the warmth within. Part of him, the unprofessional, lazy side of his brain, urged him to turn back and return to the warmth of the car and the comfort of the motel where he and Scully had checked in. What harm could there be in waiting? Besides, it was late and tomorrow was Sunday, the busiest day for the clergy. It seemed unlikely that the priest would still be up considering the hour, it seemed even less likely that he would be particularly forthcoming if summoned out of bed and prodded by the same FBI agent who had already interviewed him earlier that morning. God- had it really been earlier that same day that he and Scully had come on down to interview Father Kalashnikov? It seemed ages ago.

On the other hand, Mulder knew that he could not turn away. What was it that old friend of his had once said? _Even sharks can drown if they stop swimming_, or something of that nature. That had been an apt metaphor if Mulder had ever heard one. Especially appropriate considering his line of work and the somewhat…unstable, nature of his particular investigatory field. No, there could be no going back, especially considering that showdown with Preston earlier in the evening.

Flipping up his collar to brace himself against the night's cold air, Mulder reflected on the events of that evening. After having left the apartment of the latest freezing victim, he and Scully had caught a cap back to the police station where their car was parked. He had then dropped Scully off at the Holiday Inn at 42nd and Lewis Street where they had checked two adjacent rooms on the 7th floor. Scully had offered to come along on this latest foray into the land of the paranormal and while Mulder had been grateful for the offer, he had politely declined company and Scully had not insisted. He suspected that deep down Scully was probably irritated by the fact that he hadn't told her where he was going, but she had not forced the issue and he could see in her eyes that she was more than willing to let it slide in exchange for a shower and a decent bed. Not that he blamed her, he was dog tired himself. In any case, she knew his cell phone number and could contact him if she really needed to. Just the same, it was for the better really.

At times like these he could almost feel the investigation under his fingertips as it churned ahead, cutting deep tracks into an unknown ocean. He couldn't afford to let the investigation go cold, if even for a few hours, and that meant following up any lead which proved promising, no matter how bizarre. As much as he hated to admit it to himself, there were times when Scully could be more of a detriment to his investigation than a benefit, and he did not need her poking holes in his train of thought just as everything was beginning to come together. With that thought in mind, Mulder reached to his belt and switched off his cell phone.

Even for a graveyard, the stillness of the scene was uncanny. Another icy gust of wind sent a crinkled leaf rustling across the parking lot, flipping and dancing in the wind. Mulder felt the crunch of the gravel under his feet as he moved towards the chapel and rectory behind a grove of trees. Their twisted and gnarled branches rose up towards the dark night sky like arthritic hands searching for something to entwine in their wooden grasp. The cloud cover was heavy but sporadic, and every now and again the inky clouds would tear and shred under the wind currents in the atmosphere, parting to reveal a sliver of rotten yellow moon low on the horizon. In the distance up on the hill stood the graveyard, silent and uninviting. Rows of headstones and grave markers stood silhouetted against the horizon, dark lumps rising up from the black graveyard earth. Steadying himself, Mulder braced himself against a fresh burst of wind and quickened his pace, covering the distance of the white gravel parking lot in a few minutes. As he reached the grove of trees, the moon ducked back behind the clouds again and the world darkened, camouflaging the graveyard under the cover of night.

The rectory was dark, but Mulder knew better than to assume that no one was watching. A quick visual survey of the building exterior told him that while no lights were on, the smoke coming from the chimney indicated that at least a fire was burning inside. For a moment he considered ringing the doorbell, but he quickly ruled that out. He had no desire to awaken the rest of the house; he just wanted to speak with the priest. Instead, he removed his right hand from the warmth of his coat pocket and gave the door a sharp wrap with two of his knuckles.

Mulder stood still and listened, his ears straining to hear the slightest sound that might be carried on the breeze or through the heavy oaken surface in front of him. Nothing. For a moment he felt the urge to simply turn around and go back the way he had come, but he quickly shoved that thought aside and refocused on the task at hand. He had already made a decision, it was now time to act. He thought about knocking on the door again, but thought the better of it. If anyone was inside they had surely heard the knock and were just not responding. Instead, he took the cold wrought iron door handle in a firm grip and tried the latch. It gave a satisfied-sounding click and (much to Mulder's surprise), the door gave way.

The moon had once again slithered free from its cloudy skin and cast a pale light over the scene. Mulder eased the smooth wooden door open and ever so slowly put his hand on the butt of his pistol. He couldn't precisely say why he did it, but it was instinct more than anything else. The rustic door was evidently well-maintained for despite its obvious age, the hinges were well-oiled and made not a sound as the opening grew ever-wider. Checking back over his shoulder to ensure that no one had come up behind him while he had been preoccupied with the door, Mulder stepped over the threshold and into the warmth of the rectory.

As he closed the door behind him, it was immediately apparent to him that he had correctly assessed that there was a fire burning somewhere inside the building. The smell of wood smoke hung loosely in the air, and the open doorway to the right of the foyer revealed a comfortably furnished living room, illuminated in a soft, flickering orange light.

With growing wariness, Mulder edged towards the doorway to the right of the foyer and cast his eyes about as much of the room as he could see. Judging by the sofa in the corner and the thick carpet on the floor it was obviously the den or living room of the priest. Steadying himself from the sudden dizziness he felt from emerging from the bitter cold into warmth of the rectory, Mulder stepped around the protective side of the doorway and into the living room, his hand still on the butt of his pistol, ready for anything. As if reading his mind, a familiar voice suddenly rose out of the orange-accented darkness.

"You don't need the gun, agent Mulder. You're in a safe place." The words glided through the scented air and were marked by the finality of a man who was used to speaking with authority. "In any case, if he came for you, it wouldn't do you any good."

Mulder allowed his hand to drop from the butt of his gun and hang loosely by his side. A touch of embarrassment mixed with equal parts curiosity and apprehension in Mulder's already tense brain. His eyes adjusted to the new surroundings, he made out the other half of the room which had not been visible from the foyer. In the murky back left corner of the den was what could only be a large armchair with the silhouette of a certain Father Kalashnikov seated comfortably within.

"Please, have a seat agent Mulder," spoke the priest, beckoning towards a love seat which sat diagonally from the armchair and perpendicular to the fire.

"I'd rather stand, thanks." The figure of the priest seemed to shrug but it was difficult to tell.

"Suit yourself, agent. I won't force you." With that the man fell silent and turned his head back towards the fireplace, staring into the rapidly dwindling flames.

Mulder was at a loss. Common courtesy and social norms dictated that if a man barged into another man's house uninvited and unannounced and the interloper should provide an immediate explanation and apology or risk being thrown out. Instead the man who's house he had just invaded in search of some answers had seemed to be expecting him all along. While not an altogether new situation for Mulder, it caught him off-guard. Unsure of what to do with himself, he crossed the living room with a deliberate stride and cautiously lowered himself into the soft, comfortable seat.

For a long time no one spoke. Mulder leaned back in the chair and eyed the priest with a suspicion tinged with curiosity. Although his eyes were adjusting to the low light, it was difficult to make out much of the priest's figure. He was dressed in the somber colors of the off-duty clergyman and his arms lay relaxed on the armrests of the chair. On the floor was a short, stocky crystal glass, empty save for two melting ice cubes. Mulder felt a thousand questions tingling down the nape of his neck. Questions and a growing sense of frustration as he struggled to find a way to ask them. After all, he had not expected to find the priest awake and alerted to his presence, drink in hand and fire crackling in the fireplace. Fortunately Kalashnikov solved the problem for him.

"You came to me this morning, asking for information" he asserted, his voice slow and melodious as he spoke, "and I have to admit you caught me off guard. I was rude and dismissive. And for that I ask for your forgiveness. It's just that I haven't heard that name in a long time and didn't expect to hear it ever again, especially from an FBI agent." Deep in the fireplace a log popped and sizzled, sending a slight shower of sparks cascading down to join the embers. Thankful at having the conversation opened for him, Mulder sat forward in his seat.

"Father, I need some information. It may be critical to the case I'm investigating and I need to find out what's going on before anyone else gets hurt."

Father Kalashnikov's arm left its perch on the armrest of the chair and crept towards the glass on the floor. His eyes remained fixed on the fire, the flames dancing in his pupils. Tinkling the ice cubes in the bottom of his glass, he finally looked away from the flames and for the first time transfixed Mulder with a piercing stare.

"Do you want my advice, Agent Mulder?" The question was posed with such gravity that for a moment Mulder felt himself blink. Before he could answer, the priest resumed. "Stay away from this one Agent Mulder. Don't get involved. What's happening is happening for a reason, and no matter what we try to do, it's out of our hands now."

"You have no idea how many times I hear that in my line of work," spoke Mulder with what he hoped was carefree nonchalance. Just the same, the priest was unnerving him. "Who is Cassian the Unmerciful?" The priest shook his head and turned back towards the fire. Sighing, as if in concession to the indomitable will of the very foolish or very young, he answered.

"Not who, Agent Mulder. What." From the fireplace came another popping sound and the room was briefly illuminated in a flare of light as a log split in half and burst into flame for a moment before settling back down to a slow burn. "The Eastern Orthodox church has a long history of preoccupation with evil. And not just the garden variety evil of which we are all capable: theft, robbery, genocide. These of course we deal with, but as manifestations of the capacity for us as imperfect beings to do harm to one another. No, Agent Mulder, there is another kind of evil, the kind which has its roots in the demonic and the unseen." Slowly, deliberately, the priest took a strong grasp of the armrests of his chair and lifted himself out of it, groaning as he did so. He walked towards the fireplace and, reaching for the poker, gave the embers and burning logs a few sharp stabs before returning to his seat, his long black robes casting a long shadow in the living room.

"Cassian the Unmerciful is a manifestation of just such forces Agent Mulder, a relic of ancient practices and pre-Christian beliefs: pagan worship, idolatry, human sacrifice. He has been called a saint for lack of a better word, but don't be deceived by terminology. No, Cassian the Unmerciful is no saint. He is a demon of ancient Russia. A being so terrible that he survived the medieval purges and pogroms of the church fathers and lives on in our most holy theology, masked as a servant of God."

As if listening in on the priest's narration, an ember flew out of the fireplace and landed on the flagstones of the hearth, smoldering for a moment before extinguishing itself far from the safety of its home. Mulder turned back towards the priest, his hazel eyes bright and sparkling in the shadowy recesses of his face.

"A demonic personage?" he asked, his voice clearly conveying his cautious optimism. "I thought that the modern church tried to steer clear of that sort of myth." The priest shook his head.

"There are many beliefs which could be characterized as myths and legends, Agent Mulder. This does not make them untrue. If you need proof, look no further than the one about the god who is nailed to a cross and then comes back from the grave to save mankind." At this Mulder cocked his head ever so slightly. The priest resumed his tale.

"A long time ago, when I was still a young seminarian, I spent a semester abroad in a monastery on the slopes of mount Navil in what was then the Soviet Union. I was a young man then, and still full of all sorts of bright ideas and scientific notions. The monks were kind on me, and in retrospect tolerated my condescending smugness far better than they ought to have." At this the priest's voice warbled slightly, but it quickly recovered. "I was a young westerner who thought he was on the cutting edge. What did I know? In any case, one of the monks there was a brother by the name of Sachko. No one knew how old he was, but he must have been ancient. His knuckles were twisted and bent, his beard was long and as white as a lamb's. His eyes- oh, I don't think I will ever forget his eyes. So clear and lucid, you'd have thought that he was a madman; some lunatic given over to the monastery because his family couldn't keep him and didn't want to hand him over to the state asylum.

"In any case, the monks seemed to have an unspoken bond with Brother Sachko. As if he was the keeper of some dark and terrible wisdom that no one dared speak about. It's cliché, I know and at first I dismissed him as some old crank who had been taken in by the convent. No one really talked about him much and he kept to himself, tending his vegetable patch and going on long, wandering journeys in what was then pretty sparse countryside. People always seemed uncomfortable around him and to tell the truth, I really didn't blame them. However, it was around March of that year when I found out why.

"The local district commissioner had been giving the monastery a hard time for many years. It was standard practice in those days to make life for the monks as difficult as possible, considering the Party's official stance on organized religion, what with it being the 'opiate of the masses and all.' It was an more or less open secret amongst those in the know in the old Soviet Union that one way to further one's political career was by making a big show of how much disdain you held for religion. But this particular commissioner- he truly hated the church which a passion which frightened us all, even those who had lived their entire lives under communism and knew of nothing else. That, coupled with a burning desire for a promotion, made life very difficult indeed for the brothers at the monastery.

"One day this commissioner arrived at the monastery, half a brigade of military engineers in tow. He walked through the monastery gates with much pomp and circumstance and demanded to see the abbot who quickly obliged. As it happened, the ancient monastery just coincidentally happened to be built on a site which was slated to be leveled and razed to make room for a new provincial road. The commissioner shook his head, claimed that it was out of his hands, there was nothing more he could do, but we all knew him for what he was the moment he arrived at the head of his column of bulldozers. The gleam in his eyes and the tone of his voice as he conveyed the sorry news that we had 48 hours to vacate the premises before the demolition project began told us all we needed to know where his true emotions were centered- Moscow and the _Politburo._

"The abbot was furious, the brothers doubly so, yet it was a fury tempered with resignation. The monks had all lived their entire lives in Russia and all knew of the persecutions and daily harassment to which they were subject as clergymen. There was nothing they could do. And yet, as the monks went their separate ways, returning to the kitchen or the garden or the dormitories, I couldn't help but noticing Brother Sachko. He alone amongst the brothers had said nothing and did not seem about to start. Instead of hanging his head and wringing his head in protest or assent, he merely stood in the courtyard, his black robes hanging loose on his gaunt frame, the gentle breeze tugging at his white beard. He stood there and looked out towards the main gate, his wet and vacant eyes locked on the figure of the commissioner as he and his men walked back out the main gate towards where the engineers were setting up their camp. He stood there for perhaps an hour or more. After that, he simply spun on his heel and left, heading back towards his briar patch or garden or who knows where. Sachko came and went as he pleased, no one seem much inclined to bother with telling him how to behave or what to do. I questioned the brothers about this and asked them Sachko had been doing. They refused to answer and quickly made their excuses, changing the subject or leaving the conversation entirely. That night was an uneasy one for me and the rest of the brothers, for we all knew that in two days we would have to pack our belongings and leave. For me it was not an issue: I would just go back to the States or find another monastery, but I felt sorry for the brothers. They had been there most of their lives and had nowhere else to go.

"In any case, the road was never built. The next day they found the commissioner dead in his tent. The official report was that he had died of a stroke brought on by the cold March temperatures and he was quickly interred in a state graveyard. The engineers broke camp the following morning and returned to their barracks. No more was ever heard from the government offices about building a road or razing the monastery, and little by little, things returned to normal. The brothers never spoke of what happened and despite the dozens of questions I asked, I never got any answers regarding what had occurred that night. And although from time to time I would catch sight of a lean, gaunt figure in long black robes from a distance while performing my duties or going for a walk, I never again came face to face with Sachko. However, two days before my semester ended and I was scheduled to return to America, I paid a visit to the local coroner's office. The coroner, a fat, balding man with steel spectacles and a dirty lab coat at first refused to talk to me, citing his professionalism and distrust of religious superstition and all that rot. It was a stroke, plain and simple, and beyond that he apologetically stated that he was unable to say anything else about the case. The cold weather had obviously very badly affected the commissioner and the poor man's health had given out. A few drinks later however, I questioned him again. He remained as tight-lipped as before, and just as I had almost given up on the task and settled on letting the matter drop permanently, he leaned in towards me and, casting furtive and frightened glances around the bar lest someone hear him, he let slip two words. It was not much, but enough. '_Kas'ian Nemilostivyi_-' Cassian the Unmerciful."

The priest once again reached for the glass on the floor and, now that the ice cubes had more or less melted, took a swig of the shallow water in the bottom of his cup. Without realizing it, Mulder unconsciously began rubbing his hands against his thighs, trying to rub off the sweat which had accumulated on them. The heat of the room was oppressive, despite the fact that the fire had long since died out and that all that remained in the fireplace where a small pile of white flakes and a few glowing embers. The room was now almost completely dark, the fire having been the sole source of illumination in the room.

"Years later," the priest resumed, "I returned to the monastery and saw the brothers. They all greeted me with joy and celebrated my return as if I had been one of their own monks returning home to roost. However, when I asked about Brother Sachko, the monks always seemed reluctant to talk and some flat out denied that there had ever been someone with that name at the monastery. But I know what I saw, agent Mulder, and I remember it. And though it was years and years ago, the experience has had a profound impact on me."

"And with that," began the priest again, this time with an air of finality, "I'm afraid I need to bid you farewell. It's very late and I have a Sunday service to perform tomorrow, bright and early. I'm sorry I can't be of any more help." Father Kalashnikov let out a deep sigh and sat upright in his chair and then, with what appeared to be a supreme effort on his part, heaved himself out of his chair and slowly drifted towards the foyer and the staircase, heading up to what Mulder could only assume was the bedroom.

Questions spun through Mulder's mind as fast as the sparks which had earlier leapt out of the fireplace so eagerly. Cassian the Unmerciful, a figure from the pagan Russian underworld. Sure, it sounded crazy and yet, although he could guess what Scully's immediate reaction would be, it made sense to him. A vengeful spirit with a taste for sudden unexplainable death. It still left a lot of questions unanswered, such as why the particular victims where chosen or how exactly this demon had caused their deaths (although the logical answer to that question of course was the sudden application of demonic powers, resulting in a thoroughly frozen victim). After all, demons didn't generally appear and strike down people unexpectedly; there was always a reason for their arrival, such as a summoning or magical ceremony involved. However, at least it was a start. With any luck, Scully would be able to provide some more background on why anyone would want these particular victims dead. Standing up, Mulder headed towards the front door of the rectory, checking his watch as he did so. The indiglo display on the watch lens read 11:18. Great. With any luck he would be able to get some decent shut-eye and maybe catch a late night movie before bedtime. And casting a sidelong glance at the now completely dark living room, he shut the rectory door and headed back across the moonlit parking lot, questions spinning through his mind all the way back to the car.


	10. Chapter 10

Blows dust off the cover+ It's been a while since I updated this one. Sorry about that folks, but I'm heading into my finally 2 months at university, so things are kinda hectic. In any case, I started writing chapter 10 from scratch this afternoon and then accidentally realized that I'd already started this chapter months before. Works for me, as now I don't have to worry about starting the next chapter: the intro is already written ;) Thanks for the feedback; keep it coming! Enjoy!

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1:28 a.m., Sunday, March 19th

Sasha did not like what he was hearing, not by any measure. As he paced back and forth in his dimly lit office, listening to the tinny words channeling through his desk telephone and ricocheting inside his head, it was all he could do to avoid wrenching the blasted thing free from the wall and hurling it across the room. Instead, he contented himself with slamming down the receiver and uttering a harsh string of profanities in Russian. When his rage passed, he would relax, perhaps get some sleep, and call a meeting of his boys. He would cooly and calmly discuss the situation with his men and perhaps chart a path through this crisis. But now the bitter rage had crept into him and lodged under his skin like some thrashing, writing insect which would not die and seemed to dig deeper into his flesh the more he picked at it.

Stopping in front of his desk wastebasket, he ripped the sodden, half-gnawed cigar from his thick lips and threw it into the trash receptacle with all the force he could muster. Unsurprisingly, despite his considerable strength and powerful arms, the wet, flaky cylinder sailed through the air at a lethargic pace and plopped into the metal container, eliciting barely a rustle from the fresh plastic bag the janitor had put in the night before. Riled by this seeming affront on the part of the cigar, Sasha turned his attention to the surface of his desk and grabbed hold of the first thing he laid his eyes upon; in this case, an empty whiskey glass. Spinning on his heel, the burley man turned and catapulted the fragile crystal shell across the room, propelling it through the air with nerve-wracking velocity. The glass dissolved into a puff of twinkling glass shards as it struck the far wall and exploded with a deafening (and to Sasha, infinitely more satisfying) blast.

Moments later the office door flew open and Sasha regretted his outburst. Although he did not particularly care what others thought of him, an outburst like that invariably raised questions with the boys and caused the custodians and other "civilians" concern. A stubbly bald head poked through the open and cautiously evaluated the room. Sasha was relieved. It was only Vassili. He was a smart boy and knew not to ask too many questions. "Everyt'in' ok, boss?" the bald man pondered, his eyes hidden behind dark glasses but his eyebrows raised in concern.

"Yeah, Vassili, it's fine. You can go." The bald head twinkled in the harsh white light in the hallway as Vassili cast a furtive glance around the room.

"Ok, boss, ok. I outside if you needs anyt'in, _da_?"

Sasha gave the man a listless nod and shimmering bald dome retracted back into the hallway, carefully closing the door behind it as it retreated. When the door had clicked shut, Sasha sighed and surveyed the damage on the far wall from a distance. The wallpaper appeared to be slightly torn but none the worse for wear. This was, after all, his headquarters and while he did not necessarily relish the prospect of the building falling down about his ears, if he wanted luxury he would go back to his place. Or get another headquarters. The slight residue of alcohol which had been in the glass when he had thrown it had splattered at the point where crystal had met concrete and the former lost the fight. A slight trail of amber fluid had resulted and it lazily trailed down the wall, pooling where the carpet had not quite extended all the way out. Oh well, no matter thought Sasha to himself as he rounded the desk and lowered himself into his chair. Just another job for the staff. After all, Sasha loathed nothing more than the idea of others becoming fat and lazy on his payroll and within seconds the resentment had returned.

Rummaging through his desk drawers, he located the golden cigar holster he had placed there earlier in the evening and flipped it open, relishing the scent as the spicy, earthy odor of good strong tobacco reached his flared nostrils. He monetarily considered lighting one of the cigars up, but ultimately decided that it would be too much trouble and instead satisfied himself with inserting the end between his teeth, clamping down hard as he did so. What he needed to do now was think and although he knew that in fine company it was considered extremely bad manners to chew on a cigar, nothing seemed to smooth his troubled mind than a good, soggy Dominican. And in any case, no one else was present.

Sinking his teeth into the delicate, paper outer skin of the cigar, he set his mind at work, reviewing the events of the previous few months. First Lev, then Piotyr, and now Oleg. One by one his top men were dropping like flies and there seemed precious little he could do about it. Details were proving to be frustrating elusive and he was growing tired of hearing nothing but unconfirmed rumors and half-truths. Granted, his penetration of the Cleveland police department was not as thorough as it had been a few years earlier when internal affairs had made its anti-corruption probe, but surely his contacts down at the precinct should have more information for him by now. Either the upper ranking detectives were keeping details very close to their vests, or his boys down at the station were getting lazy. One way or another, he needed to know more. Off in the distance, a phone rang. Moments later, a furtive knock emanated from the door. Sasha cleared his throat.

"Yeah? Come in."

Once again the door cracked open and the stubbly, bald head of Vassili appeared, bathed in the harsh white light from the hallway.

"Boss, it's someone here to see you."

Sasha chomped down on his cigar. When Vassili failed to produce any more information, he felt his temper rise. Struggling to keep it under control, he sat up in his chair.

"Ok, Vassili. _Who_ is it, if you don't mind my asking?"

A crooked smile crossed Vassili's face.

"I dunno, boss, some old lady. Didn't say what she wanted. Want I should tell her to scram or something'?"

Massaging his temples, Sasha removed the cigar from his mouth and attempted to place it in the ashtray. Halfway there, he suddenly recalled that he had disposed of the ashtray already and instead merely tossed it into the tin wastebasket next to his desk. Sighing in frustration, he impatiently gestured to his employee.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. Send her in." Vassili nodded and quickly closed the door behind him.

God, why did life have to be so difficult thought Sasha to himself as he reached into his desk for another cigar. Vassili wasn't really a bad boy, none of his soldiers were. It was just that at times they seemed so…inattentive. Just the same, it did at times serve a purpose. After all, Sasha had developed a bit of a reputation around the city for being tightly wound, a reputation no doubt fueled by his occasional outbursts and rages at his workers. Deep down, Sasha comforted himself with the fact that although HE knew he wasn't really angry or aggressive or a bad person by nature, it was just the fact that he had a tendency to hire absolute idiots to work for him that resulted in his outbursts. Groping in the semidarkness provided by the drawn shades, his fingers probed for a lighter. Moments later, the door opened.

Sasha looked up and heard Vassili muttering something in a quiet, vicious voice, attempting to impress Sasha's guest with his toughness and meanness no doubt. It momentarily crossed Sasha's mind to chastise Vassili for his lack of respect for his elders, but as soon as the thought came, it was gone. In any case, it would be bad form for him to criticize his worker in front of a civilian. It would make him look weak and contradictory. Clasping the silver-plated cigar lighter with his beefy fingers, he stood up and adjusted his clothes, hoping to appear presentable to whomever his guest happened to be.

Slowly, carefully, a short dark figure was silhouetted against the light of the doorframe. In the quiet of the office, its shuffling steps resounded like sandpaper on concrete. As soon as the figure was clear of the doorway, Vassili closed the door with a satisfying clack and the two were alone in the office.

"Please, have a seat." Sasha walked around the desk and gestured towards the other two chairs in his office, facing his desk. As his eyes recovered from momentary blindness inflicted on him by the wall of white light out in the hallway, he began to pick out some of the details of his newly arrived guest.

It was, or at least appeared to be, a woman: that much he could tell from the silhouette of the head, wrapped as it was against the cold of March in a scarf or handkerchief of some kind. The woman was undoubtedly very old as well, judging from her posture and the shuffling steps with which she moved. A long, gnarled cane protruded from the baggy sleeve of a weather-beaten greatcoat and to Sash it appeared as if the woman placed a good deal of weight on it, clearly favoring one leg over the other. Other than that, the figure remained cloaked in shadows, hidden in the murkiness of the room.

"It's awful late for someone such as yourself to be out this late, _mama,_" he spoke as the old woman approached the desk. "There are a lot of bad men out on the streets at night; I'd hate to think of someone like you finding yourself in trouble. Please, sit." Sasha about faced and returned to his seat behind his desk, fingering the top of his lighter as he did so.

"Sasha Constantinovtich. You and I have business." The quiet words ripped Sasha's attention away from the lighter where it was settled on and onto the old woman's face. Although female, the voice was like nothing Sasha had ever heard in his life. Low and heavy, it carried a fine edge which, coupled with its emphasis on sharp syllables and crisp consonants produced an undeniable aura of sheer menace.

"Prastite, ya ne savsem ponyal, chto vy skazali," replied Sasha after a pause, unsure how to proceed: I'm sorry, I didn't quite catch what you said.

"I said," the woman spoke again, this time in English, "you and I have unfinished business." Slowly, the figure advanced on the desk, its shuffling steps grinding on Sasha's already frayed nerves. Deep on some remote plane of Sasha's consciousness part of his brain was screaming at him that the noise of those shuffling steps was annoying and that he should kill (or at least yell at) the person responsible. Under normal circumstances, he would have had the old woman seriously punished. No one came barging into his office and addressed him in such a familiar tone, not even his long-dead brother. However, the big, blustering _boyar_ Sasha was temporarily gone. In his place Sasha felt a slight flicker of confusion: an uncomprehending apprehension which took the edge off of his anger and severely hampered his response. Cloaked in the darkness of the office, the figure stood silently, motionlessly, waiting for the big man's response. Nervously, his fingers slid along the rounded edges of his silver lighter.

"I'm listening," he replied, maintaining his voice as level as possible.

"Do you know me, Sasha Constantinovitch?"

After careful reflection, Sasha responded.

"No, I don't know you," he began, and then, with more confidence "who are you? What do you want?" As of their own volition, his fingers clicked open the top of the cigarette lighter, shattering the silence with an abrupt tick. Sasha started at the sound for an instant, before forcing his fingers to relax. He leaned back in his chair, absently relishing the feel of the cool leather on his by-now warm skin. Where was this leading?

"My name, is not important, Constantinovtich," the voice resumed, its surface brittle and crinkling like metallic foil. "You took something from me, something very precious. And now I want it back.

Sasha's brain spun feverishly in several different directions at once. Part of him, the crimson, violent part of his soul was rapidly swelling, growing more irritated and raw by the moment. Who was this old hag? What was she doing here? What was keeping him from pulling out a gun and shooting her in the knee for her impertinence right then and there?

On the other hand, another, equally prominent and twice as anxious part of his soul cautioned him to be reasonable and to show restraint. Something was very wrong. He couldn't place it exactly, but there was no doubt that one way or another, this woman- this repulsive, ominous _thing_- in front of him should be listened to very carefully and shown respect. Somewhere in the reptilian, primal, survival-oriented part of his brain, a small voice was screaming at him to be careful, to treat this situation with the utmost respect and caution. Licking his lips nervously, he struggled to find his voice.

"_Mama,_" he murmured, his voice even, "this cannot be. I am just a businessman, a stranger in a strange land, like you. However, if I have-"

He got no further than that. In the deep, dark recesses of the room another sound had slowly begun to rise, steadily building in volume until it blotted out Sasha's train of thought and demanded his attention. Leaden and heavy, Sasha had at first failed to place it. It was not until the sound built up to a crescendo that he finally heard it for what it truly was: the slapping, warbling sound that was the woman's otherworldly cackle. At the back of his neck, Sasha felt beads of sweat forming, cold against his skin. Where once confusion and anger had merged in his brain, all other senses had been wiped away clean and had been replaced be fear.

The laughing rose in pitch and volume, louder and louder, until it finally cut off with an abruptness which causes Sasha to start in his chair.

"I know what you are, Constantinovitch," the voice croaked, creaking and twisting like a rotten tree in a high wind. "You are no businessman. You have taken my son from me, and I want him back."

A sudden knock at the door ripped Sasha's attention back to the hallway. Yes! Thank God, Vassili, he suddenly recalled. He could deal with this. One word from him and Vassili would put a bullet in this musty pile of rags and shut her up for good. Then there would be no more woman, no more confusion, and most of all no more fear.

"Come in!" he shouted at the top of his lungs, reaching into his desk drawer for his gun as he did so. A woosh of warm air and a blazing column of white light tore into the room, illuminating great swathes of carpet. Vassili and Miklaus rushed in, pistols drawn. A hail of sounds and voices slammed into Sasha as he fumbled for the big revolver he knew was stashed in his top drawer.

"Everthin' ok boss?" It was Vassili, rushing up to the chairs in front of the desk and leaning in towards his huddled boss as he did so. "Everythin' ok? We heard screamin' and yelling!"

Sasha's fingers finally closed around the molded rubber handle of the revolver and, pulling it free from the drawer he leveled it at the old woman. Except that where the figure of the old woman had once stood was now only empty space.

"Where did the bitch go!" he shouted when his trembling, salivating lips finally decided to obey his brain's command. Vassili stared at his boss with the uncomprehending stupidity usually reserved for cattle and sheep.

"You mean…the old woman who came to see you earlier?"

"Who else, _halyavshchik? _The woman who was just here."

Vassili shot a puzzled glance at Miklaus who raised his eyebrows in stupid incomprehension. "Boss," he replied, clearly under the impression that his boss was either drunk or stoned, "that old woman left an hour ago. You walked her to the door and I ain't seen her since."


	11. Chapter 11

McClelland Park Holiday Inn

6:28 a.m., Sunday, March 19th

The execrably loud collection of squeaking and rattling sounds that was the dining room cart rolling past their table snapped Scully back to attention. Glancing at her partner, she couldn't help but notice with a certain degree of discomfort the way with which he toyed with his food. Fork in hand, gooey scrambled eggs and a blackened, half-eaten sausage chased one another around the inner rim of Mulder's plate, endlessly prodded and cajoled by the placid agent. Removing her spoon from the coffee swirling around in the bottom of her mug, Scully leaned back in their booth at the hotel dining room, turning the crinkled page of the Cleveland Plain Dealer as she raised the warm cup to her lips. A collection of heavily pixilated black and white photographs swam up to greet her. Most of them were baseball players. She had never been particularly interested in sports, but that was about all that was going on in the emaciated copy paper she had found waiting for them in the booth, and so she was forced to make do.

"Well, Mulder, how'd you sleep last night?" The opening remark was the first attempt she had made at real conversation that morning. After getting back to the Holiday Inn the night before, she had slipped into bed after a luxuriously long shower and spent the last few moments of her consciousness watching part of a Star Trek episode. She couldn't remember the ending, although she didn't think Mulder would be very amused at the show's bulbous-headed, laser-gun toting extraterrestrial hell-bent on ending Riker's life once and for all. She smiled at the thought. She had never really liked science fiction much, but that late at night it was either Star Trek or a Home Shopping Network rerun. She had easily chosen the former. Sighing, Mulder put the fork down and looked across the table. On some primal level, Scully became aware that this was not going to be what Mulder would consider a Good Morning.

"Something tells me you had a long night. Feel like sharing?" Scully turned another page, allowing her eyes to methodically scan across the articles, looking for nothing in particular.

"What on earth would give you that impression, Scully?"

"Nothing Mulder; female intuition. Not to mention the bags under your eyes or the fact that your room phone rang at least four or five times before you picked up." She glanced up. A bemused look crossed her partner's all-too-familiar mug.

"I was in the shower."

That was a lie. If Mulder had been in the shower he would have almost certainly ignored the call. Besides, considering the uncharacteristically sloppy lump of a knot at his collar and the thin (but clearly visible) brown stubble bristling at his chin, it was clear that what sleep he had gotten (if any) had been precarious. Replacing her now-empty cup on the cheap china saucer, she ran her eyes over him, a by-now familiar look of concern creasing her face. No, definitely not a Good Day. Despite her best instincts and better judgment, she grasped at the only opening she saw.

"Look, Mulder, why don't you take it easy today? I have plenty of work to keep me busy- grunt work mostly. I don't need your help with that. Maybe you'd like to stay here and work on your notes while I'm hitting the paper trail." Halfway into her suggestion she could see that it was going nowhere. Mulder had picked his fork back up and had resumed stabbing at the sausage with mild, indifferent curiosity while almost imperceptibly shaking his head. She should have known it was going to be this way. Whether it was out of misguided pride, a sense of misplaced macho bravado, or just plain stubbornness, she knew he wouldn't accept and so she let the matter drop. Just the same, she finished her statement out of principle.

"C'mon, Scully, you don't need to do everything by yourself. Besides," he grunted, holding his empty cup in the air to signal the waitress for more coffee, "I actually did get back fairly early last night. I just didn't fall asleep very easily."

"Duly noted." The waitress reappeared as if out of thin air and quickly poured the two agents a fresh serving of hot, generic motel coffee before sliding the bill down on the table and heading across the room to a family two booths away. When she was out of earshot, Scully closed the paper and, after quickly scanning the back page for the weather forecast, folded it up the middle and placed it on the seat next to her with a gentle rustle. The previous owners of the newspapers hadn't even bothered to leave the comics.

"So, Mulder," she began again, shifting the topic of conversation to something she felt would be more amenable to her somnolent partner. "Do feel like cluing me in on what happened after you left last night?" Folding her hands together on the table top, she waited for her coffee to cool. With one final enthusiastic jab Mulder ceased picking at his food once and for all and turned his attention to her. At last, it looked like the coffee was beginning to kick in.

"Well, let's see. Where to begin?" Reaching across the table, Mulder grabbed another pink packet of artificial sugar and shook it hard before ripping off the end and spilling its contents into his steaming hot mug. Anticipating his next move, Scully slid the cup full of ice and creamers across the table. Despite their countless generic motel breakfasts in countless generic dining rooms, she still couldn't remember if he took cream Murmuring his thanks, Mulder reached across the table for the bill and, quickly scanning it, folded it in half and placed it in his shirt pocket.

"How about at the beginning?" it was a corny line, but it was the best she could offer.

Deep down, she knew he hated this. After years together, she had finally begun to understand that when her partner went off alone to follow up a lead, it was his way of getting some breathing room, some time to think. It hadn't always been easy, and even now she still felt the occasional surge of rage in her system when Mulder decided to shut her out: to turn his back on her and lock himself in his own little mental treehouse. Believers only, no girls allowed.

On a primal, professional level, it infuriated her. After all these years, Scully felt that she had earned a right to be in on whatever it was that her partner was digging up and digging out. It had on more than one occasion crossed her mind that he didn't let her come along because he thought she was weak, but by now those thoughts were fleeting and she only allowed them to surface when she felt the need to give in to the sweet emotional release that was anger. She understood that Mulder had a deep, inherent psychological need to be correct. Call it insecurity, call it immaturity, but Scully knew enough to recognize it for what it was.

Working in the X-Files was Mulder's way of trying to fight back against the system, to earn some measure of repayment for what had happened in his past. In spite of her occasional anger and more frequent frustration, Scully understood that it was just the way her partner was. His familiarity with the paranormal was both his greatest strength but also exposed his most vulnerable side for all those to see. And, in a roundabout way, it was a testament to her investigative abilities and her assertive, at times forceful personality that he had to isolate himself from her. In a way, it was a profound statement on the quality of her work and her continuation and defense of the scientific method. A million miles away, Mulder began to stir his coffee.

It only took approximately five minutes for Mulder to relate what had happened the night before. His visit to Father Kalashnikov, the late-night rendezvous in the rectory, the story of the priest's life at the monastery, and the drive back to the hotel. Despite the by-now familiar sense of growing incredulity, Scully remained polite and attentive.

It wasn't that she didn't believe her partner, on the contrary. After three years together, she had no doubt that Mulder would come through for her when it really counted. It wasn't that she doubted the man's sincerity either; too many close calls and back-alley pursuits had long since stripped away any doubts she had regarding his candor. No, it was rather his enthusiasm that got him into tight spots a little too often. How many times had Mulder's enthusiasm for getting to "the truth" impaired his skepticism and critical rationalization? Just the same, Scully had long ago learned to accept her partner's failings and had resigned herself to her fate. Where once she might have risen up and interrupted her partner's thoughts in midstream, now she simply sat back and paid attention. More often than not it was at times like these that the flaws in Mulder's logic and reasoning became most apparent. And just as Mulder's seemingly limitless enthusiasm for digging at the abnormal features of the world propelled them deeper and deeper into the world of intrigue and scientific anomalies, it was her ability to make sound, rational judgments which more often than not pulled Mulder's fat out of the fire. It was perhaps not the best arrangement, but she had long ago come to grips with it and now accepted it as part of her professional life at the Bureau.

"So," she began after a moment of silence at the conclusion of Mulder's story. "You managed to determine the identity of this 'Cassian.' Where does this leave us?"

Mulder massaged his temples for a moment before speaking again. On the opposite side of the booth another dining cart went thundering by as a busboy made his rounds, curiously eyeing the two agent, no doubt wondering how much longer they were going to be.

"Scully, is none of this making sense to you? I mean, we have three dead bodies, all Russian or of Russian descent, all frozen solid with no apparent explanation. On a parallel track we have a malevolent demon of the Russian Orthodox church who apparently has, among other things, the ability to kill people more or less at will. Inject into this mix the fact that a witness to the crime told me personally that the deaths were the direct result of Cassian the Unmerciful's doing, I'd say we have a pretty solid explanation. The only thing we have to figure out now is how or why this is happening."

Scully caught Mulder's eye. Held it, and waited for him to look back down at the table. Point, parry, riposte

"Mulder, the fact that you were able to dig up a piece of folklore which has a passing resemblance to this case-" Pausing to organize her thoughts, Scully was not at all surprised when Mulder spoke up before she could resume.

"I think that this is more than just a case of 'passing resemblance' Scully. Would you like to hear another interesting little factoid that I dug up last night before returning to the hotel? In addition to Father Kalashnikov's personal experience, there is another dimension to the folklore of Cassian. According to Bullfinch's encyclopedia of European mythology, Cassian the Unmerciful only came out and roamed the earth once every four years. On this feast day, after having spent the previous three years and 365 staring at the ground, he would look up and wander the earth, causing anything that crossed his path to wither and die. In one province he was also thought to have control over the frozen northern winds and in the beliefs of peasants was said to be the gatekeeper to hell."

"Mulder, that doesn't make any sense." Scully strove to keep her voice neutral, or at least tried to maintained a gentle, if firm, skepticism.

"Three years and 365 days? Mulder, there are 365 days in a year." At this, Mulder's eyes glimmered. Realizing her mistake, she tried to recover. Too late.

"You are, of course, absolutely correct Scully, except for the fact that every four years-"

"-there's an extra day," she conceded, her words slow and thoughtful.

"Exactly. Guess which day of the year is Cassian's Feast day?"

"February 29th?" Scully nodded. She could see where this was going now.

"Correct. Guess how many days February had this year?" Mulder's face had cracked into a wide open grin that Scully couldn't help but find beguiling, not matter how ridiculous the grin's owner's theories might be.

"So, Mulder," she said, gathering her coat about her in anticipation of leaving the dining room and heading to work. Another universe away, the busboy prepared to go into warp drive. "You're telling me that this unusual spate of apartment freezings is the work of a malevolent saint hell-bent on chaos?" She grimaced as the tingling of thousands of pins and needles pricked at her leg. She hadn't realized her foot had fallen asleep.

"Not chaos Agent Scully, shucks no," Mulder chuckled, his eyes wide in mock disbelief. Then, seriously: "These attacks aren't random at all, I can guarantee you that. We know that these victims are all linked, no matter how tenuous the link may appear. Someone wants them dead Scully, and they're just using Cassian to get it done. Besides, technically-" he continued, sliding out of the booth and pulling his coat towards him as he did so, "Cassian isn't really a saint. In reality he's a demonic personage of ancient pagan Russia that survived the conversion to Christianity and the purges."

"Thanks Professor," she mocked, only semi-seriously as she tensed her lower leg, coaxing blood back into the atrophied limb. "And since you ignored my gracious offer to let you sleep in this morning," at this Mulder playfully raised his arms as if to shield himself, "it looks like I'm stuck with you. C'mon let's pay up and get to work.." They both smiled at this as they made their way to the front counter. Moments later, Mulder's cell phone rang.

6:52 a.m.

In all his years on the force, CPD Detective-Lieutenant Mark Preston, for better or worse, had only broken down and apologized twice. _Abrasive_. _Pig-headed_. _Stubborn_. All these and worse had appeared countless times on his bi-annual evaluation report to characterize his attitude and disposition to work. _Does not play well with others_, his ex-wife had once playfully remarked, half teasing, half serious. However, thinking about his ex-wife dredged up unpleasant memories. The way she had swung her hips around his friends, but never him. The way she always seemed so cold and unenthusiastic when they were in bed together, always rolling over and going straight to sleep afterwards without so much as a goodnight kiss. The way she ran and ran her mouth until he felt the urge to just punch her to make the bitch shut up. The- he forced those images to the back of his mind, refocusing his attention on the issue at hand. The big detective cleared his throat.

Preston was a firm believer in the "I'll try being nicer if you'll try being smarter" approach to police work. It was not that he was a difficult man to work with, or at least, not difficult if you did the job right and kept your mouth shut. Rather, it was the fact that ninety-eight percent of the time, he was in the right and his opponent of the hour was stupid, wrong, or (more often) both. He knew that he had stepped on countless toes in his life on the force, but that was just the cost of doing business. In the end he always got the job done and bagged the bad guy, thereby silencing the more vocal of his critics. However, sometimes- not often, but sometimes- a situation would arise in which he recognized that he had not just been uncivil, but that he had in fact been dead wrong. This was one of those times. It was time to pay the butcher's bill.

Looking around the briefing room for the umpteenth time, Preston once again asserted that the chamber was in fact deserted and that no one else would be around to overhear his conversation. Sitting across from him at the long rows of desks and chairs were the two FBI agents, Mulder and Scully. The girl- the agent, he silently corrected himself- wore a brisk look which reminded Preston of the way his third-grade teacher would look at him after she caught him swearing in the lunchroom. It was no doubt meant to be an unreadable poker face, but there was no mistaking the bleak contempt behind those eyes. The other agent was harder to get a read on. Sitting nonchalantly on top of one of the desks immediately facing Preston, he chewed on a nub of something, all the while keeping his face neutral and his lucid brown eyes fixed on the detective. What _the hell, this is going to be difficult, _thought Preston tiredly, _might as well get it over with._

"I'll bet you're probably wondering why I called you guys up and asked you to come over to the station so early in the morning, especially after last night." Reaching into his shirt pocket, he fished out his box of toothpicks and slid it open. When neither of the agents responded, he continued.

"I just wanted to let you folks know that I'm sorry about last night. I was frustrated and pissed off and…probably said some things I shouldn't have. And so I apologize." He placed a toothpick in his mouth and returned the box to his pocket as he methodically began to chew at the thin wooden sliver, gauging their responses. Mulder didn't seem to have been paying attention, his smooth brow a testament to his lack of concern. To his surprise, it was the female agent- Scully- who replied first.

"That's ok, Detective Preston," she began, her arms crossed and leaning back in her chair, her simple gold stud earrings glimmering in the soft neon light refracted through the dusty, insect-filled glass above their heads. Her voice betrayed no emotion, and that was all the more disconcerting for Preston. Years of experience had taught him to essentially disregard what a person actually said, but rather to pay attention to the way in which they said it. "We all want to get this case closed as soon as possible. That way you can focus on other things, we can get back to Washington, and everything will be business as usual. Right Mulder?" She glanced at her partner as she shifted her weight on the desktop.

"Absolutely," replied the other agent as he nodded in agreement, still chewing on whatever it was he had in his mouth, a look of vacant apathy leaving his features flat and listless and he spoke. "Cases like these are tough and can put everyone under a lot of stress." A short silence ensued. Preston felt an itch just under the arch of his right foot, fought the urge to scratch it, and instead pulled the toothpick out of his mouth.

"So, if I, uh…" he resumed, switching his toothpick to the other corner of his mouth and resuming his chewing. God he wanted to get this over with. "If I said anything that might be construed as ingratitude or something like that…" Despite his best efforts he stalled out, unsure of how to proceed. Apparently Scully was feeling generous as she took over from where he had left off.

"Water under the bridge," responded Scully, leaning forward in her chair. "Don't worry about it." Closing his eyes, Preston breathed a silent prayer of thanks.

"So, Detective," spoke Mulder, crossing his ankles, flicking whatever it was he had been chewing- Preston assumed it was a fingernail clipping- off into the distance to join the other members of the invisible tribe of odds and ends populating the briefing room floor. "What have you got for us? I mean I assume," at this he traded glances with his partner, "that you didn't just call us in here to apologize." Sliding his hands into his pockets, Preston scratched at another itch developing on his upper thigh.

"Not at all. Actually, it's just that my boys tracked down some pretty interesting stuff on these three victims. Real dirt if you know what I mean." A self-conscious stage wink, an attempt at humor. Having cleared the hurdle without too much difficulty, Preston appeared to be turning on the afterburners and putting as much distance between the apology and the agents as possible. The thought of Preston wedged into an F-15 cockpit, goggles over his eyes and toothpick in his mouth made her smile. Perhaps thinking he was making good his escape, Preston continued. "Besides, I knew that you two would probably want to investigate some of the background work on our vics, so if you would be so kind as to follow me this way, I will introduce you to our resident anti-gang specialist, Detective Stefan Rybakov." And with that, Preston turned and walked out into the hallway. Rising from his chair, Scully noticed Mulder rebuttoning his jacket and scratching the back of his neck self-consciously. Catching her look of mildly puzzled inquiry, he shrugged.

"I don't know about you, Scully but that left me feeling all warm and fuzzy inside." Cocking her eyebrows, she regarded him with playful disgust.

"Thanks for sharing, Mulder. I appreciated your input back there. Be sure to call me next time you want me to accept an apology on your behalf. I'll wear a better suit" A grin danced around Mulder's eyes but never blossomed.

The first thing that struck Mulder upon walking into the office with the words "Rybakov, Det. S." stenciled onto the frosted glass door was the contrast between this and Preston's office. It was not that this office was in better condition than the others, on the contrary. Despite numerous state and federal grants awarded to the CPD over the past few years, the station as a whole suffered from very patchy monetary coverage. Despite the new patrol cars in the station motor pool and the fairly recent-looking telephones scattered around the various rooms and offices in the building, there was no mistaking the fact that the 2nd Precinct's headquarters wore a look of perpetual fatigue. Chipped blue paint on the desks in the briefing room exposing pitted, rusted metal, the pervasive smell of urine and vomit in the lobby restroom, the numerous faint (is still visible) stains on moss-green carpet, all hinted at the long legacy of police work and law enforcement in this lakeshore city which had been the first stomping ground of Eliot Ness the gangbuster. Mulder couldn't help but wonder, half sportingly, half seriously, if on quiet nights the ghosts of long-dead officers and convicts returned to walk the halls, answering ancient rotary telephones that no longer functioned and poring over mouse-eaten, half decomposed case files dating back to the 19th century. It was not the form of Rybakov's office that that varied from the rest, but rather the content and organization that marked it out from the other offices in the CPD. The other _office_, Mulder corrected himself. He had really only been in one other- Preston's.

Where Detective Preston's office had been a mass of paperwork, folders, and other assortments of random junk united in organizational form only in that they all slumped in piles, Rybakov's office was immaculate. There was a crack in the plaster on the opposite wall and a few dark stains dotted the carpet, but other than that, it could have been the high-rise castle keep of a Fortune 500 executive. Sitting behind a fairly new-looking office PC, a young man, spectacles perched on his nose, was typing at a steady pace. If he noticed the party poised at his office door, he gave no sign. For the third time that morning, Preston cleared his throat.

The young man looked up and, noticing the group, stopped typing.

"Hey Mark, please come in," he beckoned as he stood up, sliding his rimless glasses higher back on his face. The smile which adorned his face was warm and genuine, the look of a person who dispensed with formal emotional conventions and actually bothered to respond with feeling upon making someone's acquaintance. Scully took a more or less instant liking to him.

"Don't mind if I do," replied Peterson, striding into the room and picking at his teeth with his by-now soggy toothpick. "Howya doing Steve?"

"Oh, can't complain; or won't rather," he said, raising his hands in a gesture of futility as he turned his focus onto his two visitors. "You two must be agents Mulder and Scully, right?" He extended his hand across the desk. "I'm Detective Stefan Rybakov. Please call me Steve. Stefan sounds a little too ethnic for my taste." Mulder reached forward and took his hand, giving it the polite, formal shake preferred in Washington circles. To his momentary surprise, Rybakov gave his hand a firm squeeze. The man's skin was smooth, cool and powdery to the touch. He couldn't be sure why, but for some odd reason Rybakov reminded him of a recent graduate from dentistry school.

"I'm Fox Mulder," he replied as he released the policeman's hand. "We really appreciate you taking some time from your busy schedule to accommodate us."

"Oh, no problem. Anything I can do to help really." He looked over at Preston who was standing off to the side, staring at the scene as if passing judgment. "Please sit and we can get started."

There were only two other chairs in the office, but what could have been a difficult situation between the two agents and their newly reconciled friend was carefully averted when the big detective made his excuses.

"Hey folks, I'd love to stick around and chat," began Preston, sounding not a bit disappointed with the situation, "but I have a hell of a lot of stuff going on right now, so if it's all the same to you, I'll leave you in the care of Steve here. Unless-" he cocked his eyebrow at the other policeman "-you have a problem with that?" There was unmistakable menace in that voice, Scully could feel it in the air.

"Not at all. Catch ya later Mark," replied Rybakov, but his words almost certainly were not heard by Preston. He was out the door and had disappeared into the hallway before Rybakov had finished the sentence. Silence ensued.

"So…" Scully was grasping at straws, trying to diffuse what had been an awkward moment between two coworkers. Although not her fault, Scully couldn't help but feel a bit like a voyeur.

"First let me apologize for Detective Preston, agents." The boyish, happy-go-lucky demeanor, which had characterized Rybakov's face, was gone. Instead it had been replaced by the quiet, determined look of the professional white-collar worker, a face known and imitated the world over. With both hands, Rybakov carefully lifted the glasses off of his ears and began to wipe them with a Kleenex from the box on his desk. "He's not a bad guy really," he continued as he wiped the glass clean, pausing to inspect them from time to time in the ray of pale, mote-filled light swirling from the unshaded window behind him. "It's just that this case is driving him up the wall and he's all out of answers. But, at least he seems to have recognized that your contributions to this case are important, if not invaluable. And so," he continued, replacing his spectacles, apparently satisfied with their cleanliness, "he apologized and essentially admitted that he's lost." Replacing his hands on the desktop, Rybakov interlaced his fingers and hunched slightly forward, before chuckling quietly, mirthfully. "That's just Mark Preston for you, folks. Genuine old school cop through and through. Love it or leave it."

"If you don't mind my asking, sir-"

"Steve. Please call me Steve. If you say sir, I'll start thinking my dad's in the room."

Scully smiled.

"All right then, Steve. If you don't mind my asking, on an unrelated note, how did you end up working for the Cleveland police department?" I mean," she cast a quick glance around the office, "I don't mean to presume, but you don't really seem to be…"

"The type?" Rybakov finished the sentence for her. To her immense relief, he seemed comfortable with the question. "Not at all, you're absolutely correct. Believe it or not, I always wanted to be a cop. I guess I watched too many police shows when I was a kid, ya know?" _You still are a kid _Mulder almost threw in, but he bit his tongue and stayed silent. Instead he focus on turning to the last page in his notebook and made a mental note that it was about time to get a new one.

"In any case, there's a couple factors. One, I speak Russian. Two, I actually have a master's degree in sociology from U Penn. Three, I'm willing to give back to the community and work what is, let's be honest, a pretty crappy job for low pay just because I think I'm helping people. Hey," he sat back in his chair, inspecting his wedding band as he did so, "who says idealism is overrated, right?" Scully surprised Mulder by actually gracing the detective with a polite little smile.

"Don't get me wrong though," continued Rybakov, his voice now more serious, "I'm a cop all the way. Not an old-school cop like Preston, mind you, but a police officer just the same. I'm 27 years old and the second youngest detective in the city. Judges have awarded over eight thousand years' worth of prison time as a result of investigations initiated and concluded by me. Later this afternoon, the district attorney and I are going down to the federal courthouse to open a grand jury hearing on six men I arrested last week in connection with racketeering, murder, and other organized crime charges. If the trials ultimately result in convictions, I'm looking at a maximum of two death sentences and a combined 250 years of prison time for my suspects." At this Rybakov folded his hands behind his head and smiled a small, self-accomplished, although his voice was crisp in tone. "I hope that answers any questions you may have about my qualifications. And don't worry, I'm not responding this way because I'm offended, that's just my general blanket disclaimer. I get it a lot and I find that it usually solves a lot of problems if I recite it upfront."

Mulder looked at Scully out of the corner of his eye. What he saw gave him cause to be cautiously optimistic, and after all why not? He liked the kid. Although he could see how Rybakov's disposition could lend some people towards bitter dislike, jealousy, or even professional hatred, he felt no such impulses. Steve displayed exactly the right mix of self-confidence, humor, approachability, and professionalism that lent itself well to almost immediate friendship. He wondered for a moment if Scully felt the same way. She seemed impressed by the look on her face, but that didn't necessarily translate to approval in her world. Just the same, he had a feeling that whatever Rybakov had for them, it was going to be good. To his surprise, it was Scully to broached the topic first.

"Well, we appreciate your help in the matter, Det-" Rybakov leveled a smooth, straight finger at her chest in mock seriousness, "-Steve," she corrected herself in mid-course and was rewarded by a single brisk nod. "But we certainly don't mean to keep you from you other assignments, so if we can get started, that would be great."

"Certainly," replied Rybakov, turning to his computer and angling the monitor in the general direction of the two. "This is what I've got for you. It's not much, but hopefully it will answer some of your questions." A few keystrokes later, they were underway.

"O.K. About two, three weeks ago, Detective Preston came to me with the details of his first freezing case. That would have been about…" he bit his lip and knitted his eyebrows in concentration, "about the last week of February or so. As I recall, at the time the case was being dismissed as little more than an oddity. We had had a cold spell here in Cleveland and although records indicated that the first victim, Lev Sobiowski, had apparently had the heater on in his apartment, there was enough circumstantial evidence to suggest that he had simply gotten drunk, frozen to death in his apartment when he passed out, and that the EMTS turned on the heat when they got to the scene. Cops are supposed to secure crime scenes and watch out for that sort of thing, but EMTS don't necessarily care as much about criminological niceties as cops do." At this Mulder nodded. Been there, experienced that, hated every minute of it.

"In any case, I couldn't be very helpful. My organized crime sting was in full swing around that time and I was spending every waking moment with the Joint Crime Taskforce and the DA's people. I made some calls for him, helped translate a bit of testimony for Peterson, and that was about it." A couple more strokes of the keyboard and the Ohio Office of Criminal Justice Services website came up. Rybakov accessed his "Favorites" folder in the IE toolbar and quickly the browser flashed to a page that he had obviously book-marked in anticipation. Out of the monitor stared the sullen, gloomy mug of Lev Sobiowski, the picture pasted next to what was obviously a central criminal databank entry. It listed several addresses as well as a number of vital statistics as well as a partial rap sheet, although this stretched beyond the bottom edges of the screen and was not visible.

"As you can see here," continued Preston, rapidly scrolling down the screen, "there's nothing too interesting in his official record. Just your ordinary swindles, acts of vandalism, petty crimes, larcenies, and so forth. He was suspected in a number of more serious crimes and was thought to have connections with the Russian mob, but then again, that alone wasn't enough to single him out, a lot of people do. But, that was about it. Not too much to go on. I simply wished Preston good luck and got back to work. However-" the excitement in Rybakov's voice was unmistakable, "a couple days ago there was a new development."

Scully's eyebrows shot up in confusion.

"You mean the next victim?" Rybakov nodded.

"Exactly. At first it was little more than a curiosity to me. I mean, I'm a detective and interested in protecting the citizens of my city, but I really couldn't devote much more time to the investigation. But as you yourselves know, this time the circumstances were quite different. This second victim," again the mouse danced across the computer screen and in an instant the by-now familiar face of Piotyr Yumashev popped into view, along with a corresponding rap sheet, "was different."

Scully was taken aback for a moment. She hadn't really known what to expect, but the contrast between her mental image of the twisted, grimacing face of Yumashev's frozen corpse and the photograph of what he had looked like in real life caught her off guard for a moment. Quickly recovering, she glanced at Mulder and then back at the computer screen. If he had noticed her discomfort, he gave no sign, or at least, pretended not to notice. _No matter,_ thought Scully.It would probably be more convenient for both of them to pretend he hadn't seem her momentary surprise, even if he had. It would avoid potentially frustrating accusations of weakness or over sensitivity on her part later on down the road. Not that that had ever really happened, she reminded herself, but they had come close enough on occasion. Too close for comfort, both on a professional, as well as on an emotional level.

"Although their rap sheets are both similar," resumed Rybakov, evidentially unaware of Scully's momentary consternation, "I couldn't help but notice one slight…similarity between the two. Care to take a guess?" Mulder, impatient to get on with the case, exhaled and looked directly at Rybakov with the expression generally reserved for assistants who were well-meaning but slow on the uptake. Rybakov got the hint.

"They both list the same place of employment at least once in their criminal history. Not simultaneously mind you, nor a specific occupation, but just an address. Considering the length of these rap sheets and the wealth of information they provide, it would be a pretty easy thing to miss."

"Let me guess," interjected Scully. "The address listed by the two suspects belongs to Trans-Rus Shipping, Inc. Correct?" Rybakov cocked his head.

"She's a sharp one, Agent Mulder," he teased. "I only wish my partner was half that perceptive." Mulder's lips twisted into a slightly humorous smirk. Rybakov continued.

"Actually, yes, but _not _Trans-Rus shipping per se. Rather, upon looking it up in the reverse address book we keep on file here, the number I called was for a place called Yuri's Pub and Grill."

"So, you're saying that these guys were both- what? Cooks or waiters, or bartenders at a local restaurant?" Mulder's voice carried a slight edge of optimism to it, as if coaxing Rybakov. Scully had heard that voice before. It was Mulder who, having finally settled on an acceptable framework for one of his scenarios, was desperately trying to get the facts to fit together.

"Well, they _would_ be, if this were an ordinary restaurant. But you see, the thing is, despite the fact that I know for a fact the number was right, there was no answer. As far as the phone company could tell, the number was valid, but disconnected. Ipso facto, no phone was plugged in."

"Curiouser and curiouser," murmured Scully, borrowing her favorite line from Alice and Wonderland.

"Naturally, I was kind of curious as to what sort of pub would not only not be listed in a conventional phone book and would not have any telephones. So, I went to go take a look myself one afternoon. At first I thought I had the wrong address. It was just some anonymous building out on Pushkin street. Just another typical downtown building. It looked like it was in a reasonable state of repair: there was no graffiti, the locks and hardware were fairly new, but there were no lights on and the shades were drawn. As far as I could tell, it looked like the kind of place which is undergoing remodeling, only it was very clear that this place wasn't being remodeled."

"So I dug a little deeper. As it turns out, the place really is a bar and grill, but only unofficially. This Yuri guy runs the establishment, but it's only open at certain times and certain days of the week. Not exactly the kind of place you can just walk into off of the street, if you know what I mean."

"Sounds an awful lot like a prohibition-era speakeasy," said Mulder reaching into his shirt pocket absentmindedly looking for a few seeds to chew on. With no luck.

"In a lot of ways, Agent Mulder, that's exactly what it is. It doesn't have a food license, or a liquor license, or any kind of certification or regulation. As far as Yuri and the people running the bar are concerned, if the cops show up it isn't a bar, it's just one big private block party. You know, every couple days Yuri and 100 or so of his closest friends get together and shoot the breeze for a couple hours. Although make no mistake about it, they really are running the place like your ordinary booze and food joint. It's just that everyone knows it's actually run by the Russian mob and as such, they're not talking. Besides," he added, an exasperated, sad look that was neither pity nor anger, just weariness, crossing his face. "What can you do? Most of the Russian families in the area probably have a father or uncle or brother that goes there from time to time. The liquor is bound to be smuggled in from Canada or stolen so it's cheap, and it's a good place to meet people who can help with various…difficulties."

"That," sighed Rybakov, "brings us to our last victim: Oleg Adamovitch. At least this crackerjack was smart enough not to list himself as being employed for a nonexistent, mob-run restaurant. However, unlike the other two, we have more than enough dirt to link him definitively to Trans-Rus Shipping. Take for example-" two more quick clicks and a case file photo popped up on the computer screen, "-this little Pulitzer-worthy moment." The grainy black-and-white photo showed a thin, weasely man with slick black hair and big sunglasses in the process of kicking what could only be a downed man in the face on a city sidewalk, a grimace of pure rage contorting his face. In the background two uniformed patrol officers could be seen, nightsticks drawn, rushing towards the scene. "Here we have the good Mr. Adamovitch involved in some altercation with another member of the neighborhood, a local shop owner. Although the shop owner lost six teeth and required 18 stitches to the face and wasn't insured, he refused to press charges and also refused to admit for the record that he had been late in his protection money payments to the local mafia boss, a guy by the name of Sasha Khostov. However, off the record, he admitted as much. We have a lot on Adamovitch, both in terms of criminal activity and association. We know that he has been involved in liquor smuggling in the past, that he runs protection payments, and that he was close friends with the other two victims, Lev and Piotyr. That's enough of a connection to link the three to Yuri's pub and Tran-Rus Shipping."

"Unfortunately, we don't have a lot on Khostov. Recent Russian immigrant, he came to this country 10 years ago in the wake of the fall of the Soviet Union. Details are sketchy, but he was suspected of selling guns on the Soviet black market and of running elaborate scams involving social security payments to crippled veterans of the war in Afghanistan back in the 80s. He supposedly defrauded the Soviet government of millions." A new photo appeared. This time it was that of a large, tan, bull-necked man. He wore the thin web of red blood vessels across his face that was the mark of a conspicuous, unrestrained drinker. His thin black hair was combed over in a vain attempt to camouflage a prominent bald spot. He wore the wide grin of a man completely unconcerned with the details of life, despite the fact that he held a police mug shot board in front of his chest. In the back of his mouth, Mulder could make out several gold teeth.

"This is him under arrest back in '93. It's a well-known fact that he's had his hand in every pie that gets cooked up in the Cleveland underworld. He's big enough that he's become rich off of his criminal network and commands a lot of respect, but on the other hand he keeps a low profile as well. That way he can enjoy his fortune and live quietly while managing to avoid a similar fate as all those Italian mob bosses who were brought down back in the late 80s and early 90s."

"We've had him under arrest eight times on a variety of charges. Seven times the charges were dismissed for lack of evidence. The eighth time we thought we had him nailed on a conspiracy charge, but two weeks before the trial our key witness disappeared and he easily beat the rap. We're hoping that this most recent sting will perhaps be enough to encourage someone to cop a plea and rat out Khostov, but to be honest, we're not optimistic. And…" sliding the mouse across the stained gray foam mouse pad, he closed the several internet windows, leaving Scully and Mulder staring at a blue-green screen, "that's all folks."

A dense, leaden silence filled the third-floor office. Rybakov pulled his glasses off his face and dropped them on the desktop with a almost imperceptible sound. Closing his eyes, he began to massage the bridge of his nose where the glasses had left two angry red impressions. Looking over at Mulder, Scully saw him flip his notebook shut and glance over in her direction. She licked her lips and began to speak, but before she could get any words out, Rybakov broke the silence.

"Look, I know this isn't much to go on, but it's a start. No matter how strange this case may appear in terms of the details, the fact of the matter is that we now have three dead Russian mobsters in our precinct. Nothing goes on without Sasha Khostov knowing about it, and although you can try, something tells me he'll be very hard to find. Even if you do find him, he won't talk to you. He's a wanted man, after all, or at least, he will be soon enough, once we make our arrests and we get some of these suckers to cop a plea." His words were cheery, but his tone of voice made it very clear he was less than enthusiastic about his chances.

Nodding sympathetically, Scully noticed her partner return his pen to his shirt pocket and button his blazer. Sensing the movement, and perhaps understanding that his role in the investigation was complete, Rybakov opened his eyes and, replacing his glasses on his face, stood.

"Thank you very much for your help, Steve." Mulder wondered if his voice sounded as warm and encouraging as he hoped it was, but somehow he doubted it. The look on Rybakov's face, although not overtly sad, was clearly tired and melancholy. Somewhere, although where Mulder could not say for sure, the full weight of the man's profession had descended on him, crushing his optimism and the ardor he had displayed when he introduced himself. "I'm sure we'll be able to put this information to good use." Rybakov looked as though he were trying to smile.

"Not at all. I only wish I could do for you, Agent Mulder, Scully." There was an unmistakable, is heavily camouflaged, tone of regret in his voice.

"On the contrary." This time it was Scully's turn. "You've given us some good information. If we manage to make any headway in this case, we'll be sure to let you know."

"And inform Detective Preston of the service you've done us," chipped in Mulder.

"I'd like that," replied Rybakov, a genuine grin at last crossing his features again, lighting up his eyes and retracing the contours of his eyebrows. "But, I don't think that informing Preston will be necessary. I mean, you tell him that I've helped you out, the next thing I know he'll come gunning for me because I ended up being more useful in solving his own case than he was. So," snapping his fingers for comic effect, "I guess we're done talking here. Let's get to work," he continued in the harsh, gruff voice that was a perfect imitation of the big man's demeanor, prompting full-fledged grins from the two agents. "Take care," he said, extending his hand. And this time, when Mulder shook took his hand and shook it, he made sure to squeeze back.

To be continued...


	12. Chapter 12

7:45 a.m.

Somewhere in the upper atmosphere, it was raining. The clouds, ominous and black as they rolled through Cleveland skyline, would occasionally rupture as the strong, icy winter air tore at them, splitting in places to reveal a dirty, silvery sky the color of oyster shells. Occasionally a sound not unlike that of a harsh wind would filter down through the gauzy cloud cover and for a brief shining moment the sleek silhouette of a rapidly descending plane would emerge from the gray, a torch in the heavy skies as the light reflected off its metallic fuselage, before disappearing back into an embankment and being lost from view. These were small planes for the most part, little 2-engine or propeller craft descending on the Cleveland Hopkins International Airport at regular intervals: airborne buses carting around relatives and businessmen across the Midwest and Canada. When he was done with the case, he and Scully would almost certainly be on one of those self-same planes, a little half-full Continental or American Eagle puddle-jumper on its way back to Washington with a middle aged, bored-looking stewardess and an inexperienced but enthusiastic pilot.

Kicking his mind back to reality- or at least, the reality he shared with other people commonly known as "real life," Mulder twisted his scarf around his neck and gritted his teeth in anticipation of the cold walk back to the car. Something in his body language or the way he carried himself on the way out of the 2nd Precinct lobby must have alerted Scully to his daydreaming, because the next thing he knew she was standing next to him, umbrella in hand.

"Whatcha thinking about, Mulder?"

It was a question without answer really, because even if Mulder told her what he had in fact been thinking about- (the planes, the sky, the way she always asked if they had Dr. Pepper before settling for a Diet Coke if they didn't), it would have seemed pointless and trivial. She would just give him one of those "what's the frequency, Kenneth?" looks that translated into "I don't really care that you got deathly seasick your first time in a plane back when you were a kid, I was just wondering if it was relevant to the case." It wasn't that she was being cruel (because she wasn't), it was just that despite their years together, her words still occasionally found a way to cut through his thick hide and sting him without her realizing it. And so, instead of actually telling her what he had been thinking about (the way that he had never seen her sleep on board planes and the fact that she always took the right side of the overhead compartment), he simply shrugged and said "nothing," because that was easier than getting into the truth and a hell of a lot less confusing at times. She seemed to accept that for an answer and, bracing herself, pushed her way through the glass doors and out into the street.

The rain had stopped falling directly on the city and as such they didn't really need the umbrella, but just the same she opened it up, seemingly relishing the sharp sliding sound of the mechanical device in motion, its oily working punctuated by a single short click. While the rain proper had stopped, the air was thick with water, leaving a thin liquid coat on all exposed surfaces and causing car tries to sizzle as they cruised the blacktop streets, commuters on their way to work. Sticking close to her, Mulder shielded himself under the wide brim of the umbrella, enjoying the bittersweet comfort which this close proximity to another human being brought. Silently they made their way back to the Taurus.

It was only after they were comfortably seated in the rental, Mulder behind the wheel, Scully riding shotgun, that they spoke again.

"Well, I dunno Mulder," said Scully, breaking the silence as they stared through the completely obscured windshield at the blue Eclipse parked directly in front of them. "That was just..." she paused, searching for a better word and, failing, continued "...weird."

"How so?" replied Mulder, absently running his fingers through his hair. It was cold and slick to the touch, moistening his fingers and causing mini rivulets to run down his forehead. Scully broke off her gaze and turned to face him.

"Didn't you feel it? It was like something from a movie down there. I mean, first we have Detective Preston. Less than 12 hours ago he was the big man in charge and was was coordinating the crime scene like the Normandy landings. The next thing you know, he breaks down and apologizes to you for being _rude_?"

Mulder turned and looked at Scully, his eyes clever and alert.

"What? You don't think he'd recognized that he might have hurt my feelings and as such decided to act preemptively by trying to smooth over any misunderstanding?" He gave Scully a momentary smile before feeling it blink out on his face. This didn't feel like it was going to be a very humorous day.

"Mulder, call me uncharitable, but the last time Preston felt regret was probably when he forgot to zip up his pants." At this Mulder couldn't help but burst out laughing. He liked laughing: it helped relieve the tension. Soon enough, Scully was smiling too, rubbing her temples as she chuckled under her breath.

"Ah Scully," uttered Mulder between the occasional chortle. "Where would I be without you?" Scully ceased massaging her temples and looked at Mulder, holding his gaze a while before letting it drop.

"Beats me Mulder," she replied, gazing back over the watery hood of the Taurus. For an instant Mulder felt the almost incontrollable urge to hug her, to hold her, to tell her how much she meant to him and how happy he was that she had come along. It was a stupid thought and he recognized it as such, but just the same he let it linger, feeling the bond between them momentarily contract and strengthen. But the moment passed and it was gone, slipping away into the fog professionalism and personal responsibility. He let the after-feeling linger for a while, before letting it fade to black. Overhead the sky was split by the whistle of a rapidly powering down engine and in the distance another plane slid through the cloud cover, landing gear dropping into position as it made its final approach.

"Scully," he started, hesitated, then continued, "I know what you're probably going to say. But just the same, I have to say it. I," he paused for a moment, unsure of how to continue, looking for the correct phrase. Deciding there was no easy way to say it, he went for the throat. "I think I know who's going to be our next, and probably last victim." Despite his apprehension, her answer was comparatively gentle.

"Ok Mulder," she responded, turning to face him, her auburn hair suddenly incredibly bright in this terminally drab city. "What's your theory?"

"There are still a lot of pieces missing Scully. And I know we've been over this a hundred times before, that no matter what it is we see or think we see, you always maintain there's a rational explanation." She started to protest but he cut her off with a single impatient gesture. "I"m not trying to start a fight, Scully, I'm just stating the situation as I see it. In any case, it doesn't really matter because what I'm about to propose makes perfect sense on the strategic level, even if some of the details are peculiar or just down right bizarre, ok?"

For a moment he felt a sudden rush of adrenaline in his system, convinced that he had set off some sort of self-defense mechanism inside of his partner. It hadn't been his intention, but he had been prepared for the possibility. To his relief after a few seconds of tense silence, she smiled, her lips spreading back to reveal a row of small white teeth as her face warmed.

"Mulder, you know you don't have to preface every explanation you give with an apology. I mean, I can understand it if my criticism has a tendency to get to you from time to time," she reached over and, pausing for a moment, placed her hand on his shoulder before letting it drop again. "You're my partner, and it's my job to bring you back down to earth every once in a while," her smile fading it bit as she noticed Mulder's eyebrows climb. "No pun intended." Mulder's smile returned and, perhaps anticipating a smart-alec joke looming on the horizon, she cut him off. "So, Mulder, do you want to tell what you think is going on here?" Tapping his foot on the floor, Mulder briefly organized his thoughts and, having accessed the file marked _Cleveland, Freezing Case_ in the poorly lit junkyard of his brain (a junkyard for expensive, exotic foreign cars perhaps, but a junkyard nevertheless), delivered his summary.

"Ok Scully," he started, his voice warm in the limited space of the car. "What have we established in terms of victim linkages? First of all, all three victims were found dead in extraordinary circumstances."

"That's assuming of course that the deaths are related," interjected Scully. "But considering the extraordinary circumstances in which they were found, I can accept that."

"Secondly, the victims all reported working together- or at least, are all connected via this Yuri's place, right? Now we know that this whole bar is really a front for the Russian mob and it's highly doubtful that these three victims were busy busing tables for minimum wage."

"Again Mulder, I agree," replied Scully, glancing out the rapidly fogging window. "However, how any of this has to do with finding out who the next victim is going to be is beyond me. Mulder Sighed.

"I'm getting to that Scully. In any case, let's say that these three victims worked directly for the mob and weren't just affiliated members or associates. How would that change the picture?"

"I suppose..." breathed Scully, a slight hint of frustration creeping into her voice, "that somehow these three victims would all be wanted dead for the same reason."

"In other words, someone or something is pissed and is gunning for revenge."

"Mulder, we don't even-" An impatient gesture on his part cut her off.

"I know Scully, I know. We don't even know who did this or how it happened or what the precise cause of death is other than instantaneous flash-freezing. I'm sure you're playing around with some interesting theories in your head right now, but to be honest I think natural explanations are going to have to take to the sidelines for now."

Reaching forward, Mulder slid the key into the ignition plate of the Taurus and gave a brisk turn. Moments later the heavy engine rumbled to life and the internal buzzer went off, conscientiously reminding Mulder that he was operating a motor vehicle without a seat belt- and therefore in violation of the law. Putting the car into gear, he glanced at his partner and was unsurprised to see the expression on her face melding into one of speculative curiosity. As if guessing her question, Mulder replied.

"In any case, if this is a matter of revenge from beyond the grave, I plan on finding out before anyone else gets hurt."

"And how do you plan to do that Mulder?" Scully clicked the lock of her seatbelt into place.

"By asking the only person who's given us any good information on this case so far."

And with that, Mulder clicked the yellow blinker on and pulled out into the light traffic of 23rd Street, the gray drizzle pitter-pattering off the Taurus' roof and running down onto the pavement below.

Apartment 21A Sanger Avenue  
9:12 a.m.

The hallway smelled slightly of burnt food and one of the lights near the end of corridor had burnt out, but beyond that the Sanger Avenue apartment building was much the same as it had been when Mulder first visited it a few days earlier. Wrinkling her nose, Scully broke the silence.

"Well, Mulder, you sure know how to pick the spots." Mulder flashed her a toothy, half-serious grin.

"This coming from a lady who spends her time cutting up dead bodies for a living?"

She shrugged.

The door, much like the rest of the hallway seemed more or less unchanged since the last time Mulder had visited. He allowed of course that it hadn't been that long since he had had his foot jammed at the bottom of that unpleasant entryway, but just the same, it paid to be attentive. Considering the usefulness of what the old man had told him earlier in the week with regards to the case, Mulder wouldn't have been surprised to see the door kicked down and a blood trail leading outside to the nearest dumpster. Much to his relief, the door was intact and apparently undamaged.

Carefully, Mulder bent down and examined the knob and lock of the doorway. Running his fingers along the rough wood, he satisfied himself that there were no tool marks or other abrasions that might suggest a forced entry. Looking over his shoulder he was relieved to see that whatever her reservations, Scully had apparently divined his thoughts and had moved the the far side of the doorway, out of the way of any fire that might greet their arrival.

Righting himself, he quietly took up position on the hinge-side of the door opposite Scully. Extending his hand, Mulder gave a series of short, sharp raps on the edge of the door and the listened. There was no reply from the inside, nor could he make out any particular sounds emanating from the other side that might suggest his witness had been compromised, such as the sound of safeties being clicked off. Looking up from the door, Mulder caught Scully's eye and nodding at her, slid the edge of his coat back, placing his hand on his holstered pistol.

Setting his hand on the cold doorknob, Mulder removed his pistol from it's holster and, keeping it low, tried the knob. It slowly slid into an (evidentially) well-oiled rotation and instead of stopping halfway into its orbit, it continued to turn. Mulder had to admit this was not proceeding as he had expected, locked doors generally being the norm in this section of town. The knob continued to turn and, after what seemed like minutes (although it could only have been seconds), he felt the latch engage and slide back out of the frame. In some dark corner of his mind he felt the air shift, the subconscious edge of Scully's body tensing. He didn't need to look to know that her pistol was out. Taking a deep breath, the opened the door and stepped into the entryway.

The apartment couldn't have changed much since Mulder had last seen it, but it was difficult to tell. As he scanned the dark living room, his pupils dilated and soaking in as much light as possible, it occurred to him that he had actually never been inside the old man's apartment. Just the same, he wasn't particularly surprised at its contents.

The place was tidy but poorly lit. The shades were drawn and in the semi-obscurity of a cloudy late winter morning, the entire room was hung with shadows. Clearing the doorway, Mulder stepped out of the entryway and lowered his gun, fairly confident that the flat was deserted. Or at least insofar as no one looking to put down some heavy firepower on the two federal agents was concerned.

On the edge of his already heightened senses, Mulder heard a soft, plasticine click and, an instant later, a thin, sharp beam of white Maglight brilliance cut across the scene, shredding the darkness and illuminating the far wall. Mulder smiled for a instant. Scully had always been the practical one.

"Well Mulder," came the voice slicing out from behind the shaft of light, "it doesn't look like your mystery man's home."

He glanced around, dropping his pistol along his side, trying to somehow will something-anything- into existence that might help. He knew it was stupid and that he was grasping at straws, but just the same it didn't _feel_ right. He was unwilling to give up so soon.

Re-holstering his firearm, Mulder stepped into the living room and took in the scene. Despite its small size, his partner's flashlight cut swathes through the room, its beam playing across the furniture and swelling into a yellow bullseye where it was interrupted by the far walls.

The place was fairly small, which was expected considering the generally cramped nature of the neighborhood, but it seemed fairly uncluttered-almost elegant in its setup. A thick carpet of indeterminate color covered the floor and lent the dwelling a cozy, vaguely homely air. A sofa and the ubiquitous T.V. set sat towards the middle of the room and, back against the wall, a single, shaded window provided the only other source of light apart from Scully's flashlight. Two doors stood to the left, one off to the right. All three were closed.

"Mulder." Scully's light danced in the dim, filling in a few more details of the room for Mulder's mental image. "I don't want to make things difficult, but we can't just come in here uninvited. You know that."

"The door was unlocked."

"That doesn't make a difference, you know that. Besides," she turned to look at him, "it might help if you clued me in a little here." Feeling frustration rise a bit in his gut, he bit his lip and forced it back down.

"Well Scully, what exactly is it you want to know?" He raised his arms in a gesture of mock defeat. "I mean, I told you everything I know. I thought that talking to the guy who lives here might be helpful. So, I chased down a lead. What more do you want?"

"Well, we could start with some empirical evidence. Add to that a few facts, some scientific method, and a plausible explanation and then we'd be on the next flight out of here."

"Instead of?"

"Instead of..." Mulder winced. "Instead of standing here in this anonymous apartment in the middle of Cleveland looking for a man whom you think might have some vague connection of the case. She took a deep breath. When she spoke again, her voice had softened.

"I mean, Mulder, that sometimes you tend to get so fixated on an idea that it becomes the only one that matters to you and as such the only one we follow up on. I-" She hesitated for a fraction of a second. Looking up at her partner, she could sense something shift. "What is it Mulder?"

A long silence.

"There's someone else here."


End file.
